


Did I Hear

by MinionRipley



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Humor, Porn With Plot, Smut, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3881170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinionRipley/pseuds/MinionRipley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marian Hawke stumbles across a delicious voice and then keeps on doing so, until she eventually stumbles into its owner. Things develop rather steamily from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Posted on the DA kink meme on 8/19/2013. Posted again to FF.net on 8/24/2013. Transferred here on 5/5/2015.

The first time Marian Hawke heard it, she’d been in the Lowtown market, tracking down a contact Meeran had given her for a job – hopefully her _last_ job with the man. It was late afternoon, and she was tired, hot, and sweaty from a day spent tromping through every street in a half-mile radius and then again because she’d gotten turned around. And she _still_ hadn’t found the contact.

But the moment she heard it – that voice, that wonderful, sonorous voice that sent her head spinning and a heat simmering between her thighs – it was as though all of that melted and drained away.

It was the low, rich timbre of a man, quiet yet loud enough to carry through the bustling crowd, slipping into her ear like velvet and making her shiver. At first she’d thought she’d imagined it, but, no, there it came again. And that time she noticed its roughness, a certain husky quality that suggested its possessor had just rolled out of bed after a hard night. Or a night spent in more intimate matters. She shivered again.

“I am telling you,” the amazing voice said, “I paid quite handsomely for this just the other day, and this morning it-”

“Have you wandered off again?” Carver cut in. He stood several paces ahead of her, looking back with an arched eyebrow and a tightness around his mouth that said without speaking, _Oh no, not this again._ She knew that was what it meant; she’d seen it enough times.

Marian rubbed at an ear with a frown. “No, I haven’t.”

“Have, too.” Her brother heaved a sigh. “We’re not going to find that contact before sundown if you keep drifting off like that.”

“Oh, give me a break,” she retorted. “It was just the once.”

“So you _were_ , then.”

This time she heaved a sigh. She glanced to the west, peering at the rays of sunlight that filtered between the tightly-packed buildings. Carver was right, though; it wouldn’t be long before evening set in. As much confidence as she had in throwing around fire and ice, she’d rather not run into any thugs in a dark alley. If nothing else, it meant less time spent washing out stains from her clothes. And a lower risk of templars sniffing after such fights.

“Perhaps we should try again tomorrow,” she said, reaching into the satchel at her hip and pulling out a slip of paper. She furrowed her brow as she looked between the directions on it and their surroundings. “I’ll check with Meeran again in the morning. It’s possible I wrote down the wrong address.”

“ _Very_ possible.”

She shot him a sharp look, resisting the urge to huff and set her hands on her hips as well. As it were, she stuffed the paper back into her bag with a bit more force than necessary as she turned in the direction of home. “I’m not going to argue with you,” she said. “Let’s just go.”

He rolled his eyes but offered no further protest. Thankfully.

As they left, Marian glanced around, searching for the source of that wonderful voice. But by then it was gone, lost amongst the growing noise of merchants closing up their stalls and shoppers making their final selections. With a sigh, she turned her eyes back to the street and resolved to forget about it.

But of course she didn’t forget. Later that day, as she lay in her thin straw bed trying to fall asleep, she thought of that voice. She’d heard so little of it, only a sentence or two worth of words, but even that little had been delightful. Like hot mulled wine for the ear. She wondered what such a voice would sound like after waking from a deep sleep or – she blushed to think of it – in the throes of passion.

She tried to picture the man who possessed such a gift. A dockworker, built strong and as thick as a brick house, hands rough and wide from years of work, and his heart as sure as the shore? Or perhaps one of the dwarven tradesmen she saw from time to time in the marketplace, with quick fingers and a quicker mind, wielding civility and wit as easily as he used the power of his voice? Maybe even an elven servant come from one of the Hightown estates, shy and humble of his great attraction on the surface, but within more than capable of using it to bend others – even the pretentious nobles he served – to his will?

Her musings were more than a touch unrealistic, she knew. More likely, the man was but like any other, more concerned with his daily woes than the effects of his toe-curling voice, if he was even aware he had such a voice to begin with.

But it was pleasant enough to _dream_ – to imagine a man who knew his talents and bent the rules to best effect with them, who knew his voice could make her melt in the middle of winter and didn’t care so much for where or when so long as he made her do so over and over. What would such a man be like to love? Would he be forceful, claiming her mouth with bruising kisses and dominating her body with determined hands? Or would he be surprisingly gentle, whispering sweet nothings in her ear with that honey-thick voice as he pressed her into a soft bed, her legs wrapped around his waist?

 _Ooh, that’s a nice thought_ , she mused, blushing hotly at it. She pressed her thighs together as arousal coursed through her. She was tempted to reach down and bring herself to completion with such wanderings, but the snoring forms of her family not even a yard away made her stamp down on the desire.

Frustrated, she rolled onto her side and pulled the scratchy, woolen blanket up over her shoulders.

 _It’s not like it matters anyway_ , she thought. Tens of thousands of people lived in Kirkwall, and hundreds came and went each day. What chance did she have of ever finding a person – much less someone she’d never even _seen_ – amidst all that?

 _Forget about it_ , she told herself again.

And, closing her eyes, she tried. Maker knew she tried, but as sleep finally fell upon her, she swore she heard it again in a dream: that breathy timbre softly, ever so softly, trying to whisper a name in her ear.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Posted to FF.net and the DA kink meme on 10/4/2013. Transferred here on 5/5/2015.

The second time Marian heard it, she was sitting at the docks.

In her first few months in Kirkwall, she’d visited the port often. Between jobs from Meeran, she’d had little else to pass the time with. Too poor to buy the things she needed to draw or paint, too dirty to pass herself off as a noble and browse the wares in Hightown, too low-class to even think of asking for permission to read the books stored within the chantry’s vast library. The docks seemed as good of a place as any to while an afternoon away. Better than Darktown, at any rate.

Sometimes she’d come to simply watch the boats in the calm water: the oaken cogs owned by smalltime sailors, the merchant hoys from Cumberland, the cargo vessels heaving with goods from Antiva and Orlais, and many others. They creaked and groaned in the breeze, their mass gently rising and falling with the lapping waves, then rising and falling even further with the changing tide. High above, the gulls cut through the sky, piercing the air with their cries, while below the dockworkers toiled, sweat streaking down sun-darkened skin as they tied boats in and hefted wares to and fro.

Other times she’d come to think, more often to reminisce. Some of her memories were happy, of Lothering in the summer, wheat ripening to yellow under the sun and the laughter of children in the town square. Others, not so much, the wounds still too recent, the pain still too sharp to ignore. She tried to put them out of her mind, to give them the time they needed to heal and scar, but occasionally they would rise back up out of the darkness, and she would break down and weep. Only for a minute or two, and then she would force herself to dry her tears and square her shoulders once more.

At first, Mother and Carver had disapproved of her going. She was an adult with responsibilities and work to do, Mother would tell her. She shouldn’t be off alone daydreaming in places where a templar could easily apprehend her. They _worried_ about her. Or at least Mother did; Carver just glowered at her for an hour or two, and Uncle Gamlen, if he was even around, showed no sign of caring at all.

But still she continued to slip away when she could. (Her mabari, Ser Barkley, helped with that, the clever hound.) Even just for half an hour, it was worth the hike there and back.

That was, until her service to Meeran came to an end, and with that newfound freedom came the utter lack of any free time, as all of her hours were devoured in her search for work. Her visits quickly grew fewer and farther between because of that, and also because of the Qunari. They had arrived in the city but a fortnight ago, taking up residence in a walled-off section of the port given to them as a “gift” by the Viscount. For their comfort, or for the populace’s, she wasn’t sure. A few times she felt a tug of curiosity, but it was tempered by the memory of the one she’d seen in Lothering, a confessed murderer who had killed the family of Bethany’s best friend. And so she kept her distance, attentive but wary.

At least they were easy on the eyes.

It was at such a moment of making life a bit easier on her eyes when she heard it, that tantalizing growl of a voice that sent a heat curling down her spine as it muttered:

“I didn’t think this city could smell any worse. Evidently I was wrong.”

 _You should try Denerim in the summer_ , Marian thought with a wry smile. Only to frown the next when she realized, _Oh, shit, he might have seen me ogling the Qunari. He probably thinks I’m a gigantic pervert. Shit, shit, shit._

Well, she was kind of a pervert, but that was beside the point.

She twisted her head this way and that, looking for the source of the voice. It’d been close, very close, perhaps not even several yards away from where she sat. But the docks were crowded, full of people of every race and build grunting and groaning to and fro with boxes in their arms or bags slung over their shoulders, making it impossible to tell who it could have been. She caught sight of a strange shock of white hair in the throng, but it disappeared the next second between two burly men.

By the time the next hint of the voice came – another disgusted, _delicious_ huff of breath – it was further away, barely audible over the solid thumps of footsteps along the wooden planks. She rushed to her feet and jogged after it, desperate to discover its owner. She didn’t know if she would actually talk to the man – nor did she know if she wouldn’t melt into a puddle at his feet the moment he said “hello” – but she had to _see_. If nothing else, she’d have a face to put to her daydreams at last.

As she did, she passed the man with white hair again. An elf, with skin that shone bronze under the sun and twining tattoos so bright she swore for a moment that they actually glowed. He was dressed in black leather armor, a steel chestplate strapped to the front with a greatsword slung over his back. A distinctive man, no two ways about it. And very handsome, to boot.

And here she’d been wasting her time on the Qunari.

 _Can’t be him_ , she thought. _Fate’s never that nice. It’s probably some guy with half of his teeth gone and a face that only a mother could love._

That thought gave her pause. If that were true, did she really want to find the source of the voice? Finding could very well ruin her fantasies, for all she knew. Perhaps it was better to not seek out the man, to be content with the mystery. She considered it.

 _Nah_ , she decided.

She continued looking, sweeping her gaze back and forth across the crowd, but she met with no luck. Still too many people, and now the voice was silent. She was sorely tempted to just scream out, _All right, who here has the sexy voice?_ But some small part of her remaining decency kept her from doing so – not to mention there was a good chance a full quarter of the dock might believe they qualified – and so she kept on in her search, growing more frantic with each passing second.

 _What is he – a ghost?_ she grumbled to herself. _He can’t have just vanished!_

As if her thought had summoned it, she heard the voice again, practically in her ear as a gauntleted hand on her arm gently pushed her a little aside: “Pardon me.”

She whipped her head around in the direction of it, her mouth agape and her heart nearly singing in her chest with excitement. Finally, _finally_ , after weeks of frustrated, sleepless nights, she would know who possessed that wonderful, delicious voice. She reached back towards the person and sucked in a breath, hoping to catch the man, to make some sort of excuse to delay him a little, to hear that rich, beautiful timbre just a bit more.

Only to shriek instead when a crate swung out of the sky and knocked her clear off the dock.

It wasn’t a hard hit, fortunately, but she couldn’t do much about the salt water rushing up to meet her. That, considering the height from which she fell, was significantly less pleasant.

She sputtered as she surfaced, gasping and clawing at the barnacle-encrusted pier for some purchase. Despite the mild day, the water was freezing, and hardly had a few moments more passed before she felt herself begin to shiver. She looked up, at once hoping and dreading that the owner of the delicious voice had stayed to watch, perhaps would even be so kind as to help “warm her up” afterwards.

Several dockhands stood peering over the edge, one of whom was quickly lowering a knotted rope down. She squinted at the men as her teeth started to chatter. They didn’t look half-bad, a little scruffy around the edges perhaps, but, with a voice like that, she’d honestly put up with a lot worse.

Perhaps it was one of them?

“Shit! Sorry, serah! We’ll get you up in a jiff!” one of them – _not_ the voice – shouted down to her.

Another – also _not_ the voice – added, “I’m afraid the crate got away from us as we were hoisting it up, you see. Terribly sorry!”

“It’ll be only a moment, serah!” the third one – she could strike him off, too – said. “Just hang on!”

Which left no others, as anyone else watching had already lost interest and continued walking on. Except for the strange elf, who stood for but a moment longer, peering down at her with furrowed brows, until she took hold of the rope and began to drag herself up. The next time she looked, he was gone.

 _Well, shit_ , she thought. _Even after getting tossed in the sea, I_ still _don’t know whose voice it is._

But she did know something else:

Mother was going to be _furious_ with her once she saw her sopping clothes. And Carver? Oh, she didn’t want to even think about him!


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Posted to FF.net and the DA kink meme on 12/21/2013. Transferred here on 5/5/2015.

The third time, Marian was in the middle of negotiating a job with a client, a middle-aged man who appeared a decade older than he was and wore clothes that looked as though they hadn’t seen a wash in even longer. Still, if the man could give her work – and what’s more, _pay_ for it – she had no real complaints.

At the moment, though, she wasn’t sure of that. The man had been dithering, buying drink after drink as they sat talking at the counter in the Hanged Man and dodging her questions. Varric Tethras, a crossbow-slinging dwarf she’d fortuitously – a little _too_ fortuitously, she sometimes thought – met after her failed negotiation with his brother a fortnight ago, had given her the man’s name the day before. A regular contact of his, he’d said. Supposedly. She honestly wasn’t certain just how many of these “regular contacts” he kept.

But one thing she was sure of was that the man was ogling her. Every time she glanced away, she swore she could feel his gaze crawling over her like a slug, and she’d always look back to find his eyes on her breasts or legs.

 _Ugh, I’m going to need a bath after this_ , she thought.

But she knew better than to object, not when her family was running low on money and Uncle Gamlen was about a week away from finding some other “work” for her. And probably with someone a fair bit less charitable than Meeran, if one could call such a man as him that.

She almost sighed. What she would’ve given to have Meeran burst in and drop a job on her head like the old days. Easy, quick, and simple – none of this chatting-up-the-client nonsense.

 _A little late for nostalgia_ , she chided herself.

As it were, she wished she’d thought to try asking Varric to accompany her. He seemed more of the smooth-talker type, not her. But, nooo, she was the responsible one, she’d told herself; she needed to be able to do this on her own.

Maker, she was regretting that now.

At least she had Carver with her here. Sort of. Last she had seen, he’d been at the other end of the counter, talking with one of the barmaids with a grin on his face that made it perfectly clear he wasn’t paying much attention to anyone or anything else right then.

Maybe she should’ve asked Aveline to come with her instead.

“So,” the client said, and she snapped her attention back to him with a forced smile. “Are you doing anything tomorrow evening?” The way he leered at her made it clear he wasn’t thinking of some sort of midnight guard duty.

“Err…” She brought her mug of ale up to her lips and slowly sipped it. She had already tried gently declining the last five times he had asked the same question, but he didn’t seem to be grasping that. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

Where _had_ Varric found this man? The sewer? She could almost believe it from the smell alone.

“Well?” the man said.

She quickly tried to think of a response. She needed a plausible excuse, something better than _I have to wax my cat_.

That was when she heard it, that voice she had nearly given up all hope on since her spill at the docks. Hardly more than a murmur, but its distinctive growl caught her attention.

It couldn’t be real, she thought. After a month of silence, she’d thought it lost for good, relegating it to nothing more than another “stuff of dreams” fantasy to comfort her at night. She rubbed her forearms, trying to rid herself of the goose-bumps already pricking along her skin. But then there it came once more, a faint rumble of something, perhaps a sigh or a groan, perhaps not even words, almost entirely smothered as it was by the din of the tavern. It gave her pause, but only for a moment as she brushed it off the next.

 _Fantasy_ , she told herself. _Just a fantasy._

Only to pause again as it returned, all warm, rich, and dark as the last time she’d heard it, heating her up from the inside out like a cup of hot cider with brandy on a cold day. It was clearer this time, and definitely speech, though its meaning still remained lost on her with the noise of the other patrons. But even with so little to go on, every part of her was silently screaming, _Yes! Yes, that’s it! That’s the one!_

She half-twisted in her seat, desperate to catch some glimpse of the man in question. But the Hanged Man was particularly packed that evening, filled nearly wall to wall with people. She would have had more luck picking out a needle in a haystack.

“Is something the matter?” the man next to her said, slurring a little. She turned back to him, slapping on a smile as she watched him blink, first one eye and then the other. “I mean, if you don’t want this job…”

“Oh, no, no, I do!” she quickly protested. _Focus, focus_ , she scolded herself. “Carver and I – the Hawke siblings, don’t you forget the name – are practically pros at mercenary work. Escorting nobles, guarding shipments, cracking a few skulls – we do it all! And if you don’t believe me, just ask Meeran, the leader of the Red Iron mercenaries. We worked for them for a year. He’s got a ton of stories about me!”

At the mention of the mercenary band, the man laughed and slammed his tankard onto the counter, spilling a thin layer of ale across the bar in the process and earning a dirty look from Corff the bartender as a result. “You worked for the Red Iron? Really?” he said. At her nod, he laughed again with a wide grin. “Small world then! Just a few years ago, I was working for them myself. Why, one time…”

The man continued on, his eyes growing unfocused as he recounted a tale she may have actually had a smidgen of interest in some other time. But, as she was now – tired, strained, a little tipsy, and needing to pee from all the alcohol she had drank – she just ignored him.

Besides which, she had other goals in mind now.

The Voice – she thought it deserved capital letters at this point – was coming closer. It wound its way through the crowded bar with barely-heard _pardon me’s_ , _excuse me’s_ , and _venhedis that’s my foot’s_.

The foreign curse caught her off-guard. He knew another language?

Even if it was just swear words… _Shivery_.

“And then… And then he said, ‘Hey, that’s not my wife! That’s my chair!’” slurred the man in front of her before bursting into a wheezing round of sniggering. “C-Can you believe it? A _chair_!” He slammed his tankard onto the counter again, though this time it was too empty to spill anything. The man noticed this and, after peering down into the mug, waved it at the bartender. “Hey, Corff! I need some more ale!”

“Haven’t you had enough, you old codger?” Corff snorted.

“I’ve had enough when I tell you I’ve had enough,” the man snapped. He banged his tankard against the bar again. “Now fill her up!” With a roll of his eyes, Corff did so before leaving them to their own again. After downing a long draught of the swill, the man turned back in his seat to face her. “Eh, now where was I…?” he said. “Oh, right! I was at the Weasel’s Mouth with…”

Marian nodded at him encouragingly as she began to tune him out again.

The Voice was almost to the bar now, and she peered around the man in front of her for a glimpse of its possessor. A shock of white hair and the dull gleam of leather armor summoned a half-forgotten memory, but they slid out of sight the next second, taking with them the vague recollection.

She nearly cursed out loud. She had felt so close to finding out!

The next she heard it, the Voice had slid into a seat at the counter, beyond the still-rambling man in front of her but before where Carver sat at the end of the bar. She estimated perhaps only two or three people between its owner and herself. She tried to secretly wave a hand at Carver to catch his attention, but his eyes remained firmly fixed on the barmaid in front of him.

“So, any news?” the Voice drawled, deep and honey-thick.

“No. No, not yet, I’m afraid,” another male voice, though much more skittish, answered. “I’ve asked all of my contacts, and not a one of them has heard anything.”

“Fasta vass,” the Voice snarled. Then, after a moment, there came several dull clinks of coin hitting the wooden counter. “Keep asking.”

“Understood.”

“And the mansion?” the Voice inquired.

“Still nothing,” the nervous man replied. “It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop.”

The Voice huffed and then rumbled a short assent. It remained silent for a time, as its possessor seemed to consider the information. Then, as Corff passed by, it raised itself to ask for a drink. The thunk of a full tankard hitting the bar followed shortly after.

A few moments later, the Voice choked and then sputtered, and the other man laughed.

“Ughh, what is this?” the Voice asked.

“The house special,” the man replied, a slight smile in his tone. “I take it you don’t come here often?”

“No,” the Voice said. “I’ve not had reason to, until now.”

The other man let out another short bark of laughter. “I don’t blame you! Not the most charming of places, is it?”

The Voice chuckled. “No, it isn’t.”

Marian was in torment. Maker, that _chuckle_. She thought she could die from that alone. All rasping and dark, a whisper of a breath catching at the end, as though it were crooking a finger at her, promising her secrets only it knew and nights of such pleasure only it could give.

She desperately pressed her thighs together and stifled a moan.

In front of her, the man was still prattling on with his story, the words slurring together so much she could hardly tell what he was saying anymore. “Ssso I shhhaid to ‘im… I… I’ll meet you at thuh Fish’s Flagon, and… uhh…” He trailed off with a slow blink and absently brought his mug up to his mouth, only to scowl when he discovered it empty again.

For a moment, she thought he would turn and pester Corff for another round. But instead he focused on her, and his eyes lit up with what little sobriety he had left.

“Waaait a minute,” he said. “Weren’t… uh… Weren’t we talking ‘bout…”

Andraste’s knickers, _no_. She wanted to listen to the Voice, not talk!

“The Fish’s Flagon,” she finished with a wide smile. She quickly shoved her own mug of ale towards him. She hadn’t touched it since hearing the Voice, and it was still a good three-quarters full. “Please, go on!”

The man didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the mug and, after a long swallow of the stuff, continued his story.

And she went right back to ignoring him.

The Voice and its companion were chatting amiably now, their tones low and soft in the racket of the tavern. Marian strained to hear them, but even then it was hard to keep up with the conversation.

Not to mention how difficult it was to bother making sense of anything at all with those gravelly, dulcet notes floating into her ears. The longer she listened, the cloudier her thoughts became, twisting every word she heard into a sentence’s worth of fantasy. She imagined herself in a tavern on some other night, the bar not as crowded but lively enough that she wouldn’t hear the footsteps until the man was right over her shoulder, asking if the seat next to her was taken. She’d say _no_ , and she thought of that voice whispering little flirtations and teasing comments to her, warm breath sweeping across her ear and neck. A hand on her thigh sliding up and up. A rumbling question. That delicious, dark chuckle as she said _yes, please_.

By the time she finally came out of her reverie, though, she realized the Voice was in fact gone.

Her heart dropped.

 _You can’t be serious_ , she thought. _I missed him while I was daydreaming? Shit._

She waited several moments longer to be sure, but only the regular din of the tavern remained. The man in front her had passed out at some point, leaving him slumped face-down against the counter and snoring. Past him, the seats were empty, save for her brother and a man who looked like he had seen the business end of a shark several times. And maybe a cannon as well.

She gave a weak smile and waved.

The man just glowered at her. “What you want, girl?” he muttered. “I ain’t givin’ no free drinks.”

 _Nope, not him_ , she thought.

She sighed despondently. Yet another chance to find out who it was, completely wasted. She wondered if she would get a medal for ruined opportunities at this rate.

Then she remembered her brother.

 _Carver!_ she thought. _He’s been sitting at the other end of the bar the entire time._ _Maybe he saw who and could describe him to me._

She quickly slipped out of her seat and over to him. The barmaid had since returned to her work, gathering up empty mugs and wiping down tables, but his interest in her hadn’t lessened in the least. Marian snapped her fingers several times in front of his doe-eyed face before getting his attention.

He pushed her hand away with a scowl. “You can stop that already,” he groused, watching as she then sat down in the empty chair next to his. “Well? How did it go?”

She jabbed a thumb in the direction of the unconscious man behind her with a roll of her eyes. “See for yourself.”

Carver looked past her shoulder. “Oh.”

She waved the matter off. “Look, forget him. I’ve got a question for you.”

His brow rose slightly at that. “What is it?”

“There was a man right around here not long ago,” she said, setting an elbow on the bar. “He was at the counter somewhere between you and me, chatting with someone. Did you catch sight of him?”

He just scratched his head. “Who?”

“A man,” she said, her brow furrowed. “I don’t know what he looks like, but he has a deep…” But already she could see his gaze drifting back to the barmaid.

She fought back a groan. And _she_ was the distracted one?

“Never mind,” she sighed. “Let’s just go home.”


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Posted to FF.net and the DA kink meme on 1/3/2014. Transferred here on 5/5/2015.

The next several weeks followed in a similarly maddening fashion, full of teasing whispers and barely-heard rumbles that set Marian alight like a spark to parched grass. The Voice engulfed her, choking out any other thought besides the desire she felt for that dark, rich timbre, and each time she heard it that desire only grew. A burning, unrelenting want, scorching her from her ears all the way down to her pounding heart and even further, till every inch of her being seemed to simmer with it.

Half of the time she swore it had to be him, that it couldn’t be anyone _but_ him. She had never met anyone else with such an exquisite voice. Not even Ser Bryant in Lothering had had that nice of a voice, and he’d had a _very_ nice voice indeed.

But then she swore the other half that there was simply no way, that no matter how much she may wish it, a person just couldn’t be in that many places at once.

Regardless of what she believed, she continued to hear the Voice, sometimes nothing more than two words in the space of several days, other times a short string of conversation, a low murmur, a husky sigh, or again that delicious _chuckle_ as many as a half-dozen times in one afternoon.

But of course she never managed to catch sight of the man himself. Strain and twist and generally run about like a madwoman as much as she liked, he always eluded her, leaving her with only the memory and her thoughts.

 _What would his laugh sound like?_ she wondered. _Maker, what would a_ moan _?_

She would toss and turn in her bed to such musings, trying to imagine again and again. A murmur, a sigh, a chuckle, a _moan_ , hands grasping at her, fingers running down her sides, a coy laugh, a tug on her smalls, a low growl, _her name_.

_“Marian.”_

The Voice was nearly an ever-constant presence in her dreams now, crooning promises into her ear that she forgot the next moment, murmuring sonorous notes against her throat, warm lips pressing into her skin, hands trailing down her stomach and almost to her hips. But only almost. Its speaker – always indistinct, always changing, always restless – would slip away into the mists of the Fade at the last second, leaving her aching and wanting when she woke to the rays of dawn filtering through a hole in the ceiling.

Sometimes, when she was alone, she would try to bring herself to completion with such fantasies. She would slip a hand down her smallclothes and finish the dream in her mind, giving the man a body and personality. A tall and self-possessed noble with knowing fingers; a strong but pleasantly timid soldier good at taking orders; a bold, cunning rogue who happened to call Kirkwall home – she enjoyed all of them and more.

But more often – though she knew it nigh impossible – she thought of the elf she had seen that once. The memory had faded a little since then, but much of it remained clear in her mind’s eye. Short silver hair, brilliantly green eyes that glittered gold in the sun, the bow-curve shape of his lips, with tawny skin covered in twining tattoos so eerily white they almost seemed to shine as he moved.

She thought of those tattoos, and more particularly she liked the thought of running her hands, then her lips, along them, from the two trailing down his chin to the branching line on his neck and then further. All the while, he would groan and murmur encouragement, his voice low and rough with need.

Maker, she _needed_ to do something, or she would die from frustration alone.

“It’s driving me crazy,” Marian told Aveline one day in the barracks. “What do you do to get your mind off of things like this?”

It was midday, sunlight pouring through the arrowslits in the walls in searing streaks across the dusty floor. Most of the guards had long since departed for their rounds, leaving the training hall empty save for them. Aveline’s third day of no assignments, Marian noted; the captain didn’t seem to like her much.

Aveline took a swing at the wooden dummy. She grunted when her sword lodged in its side. “I train,” she said.

Marian rolled her eyes. “Oh, so I should throw a bunch of fireballs around? That’s sure to help.”

Aveline shot her a hard look. “It was just an idea.”

“Then give me a better one,” Marian said. “I’m a mage, remember?”

Aveline snorted and then pulled her sword free with another grunt. “Don’t remind me.”

At that, Marian pressed a hand to her chest with a fake gasp. “Oh!” she cried. “I think that one actually _hurt_.”

The next second, she found herself on the receiving end of a half-hearted punch from the guardswoman, so half-hearted she only had to sway slightly to dodge it. Even as it were, she was sure a thrown pillow would have been more painful.

She laughed. “That was weak. I thought you were training?”

Aveline rolled her shoulders with a groan. “Go bother someone else with your problems, Hawke.”

Marian huffed and threw her hands into the air. “Fine, fine,” she said. She turned and took several steps to leave, only to suddenly stop and look back. “You’ll let me know if you want anything done about Captain Grumpy-pants, won’t you?”

A small smile crossed the guardswoman’s face, even as she firmly shook her head. “Hawke.”

“What about a toad in his bath? Or itching powder in his bed?”

“ _Hawke_.”

Marian threw up her hands again. “Fine, _fine_ , leaving for real now.”

At least Varric and Isabela – previously “Captain Isabela,” but “Captain” held little weight without a boat and crew to command – didn’t seem to much mind her whining.

They were at a table in the Hanged Man, downing drinks and playing Diamondback as they talked about potential contracts, when the topic came up. It was late afternoon, the air still hot and sticky from the summer sun, and the regulars were just starting to trickle in from a long day of labor. They’d been discussing a new job for that night – some sort of “missing shipment” with a dwarf named Anso – when Isabela suddenly laughed.

“All right, who is it?” she asked with a grin.

Marian flushed and glanced away. “‘Who’ what?” she said, even though she was reasonably sure she knew already.

Isabela shook her head, her grin still in place. “You very well know ‘who what,’” she replied. “You have this warm, glazed look in your eyes, and I’ll be damned if I don’t know what that means.”

“Besides which, you keep looking at the door every other minute,” Varric added with a chuckle.

Marian frowned. So what if she had been? She was allowed to look, wasn’t she? There wasn’t a force of guards going around telling people not to stare at doors, after all.

“Come on,” Isabela said, “who is it?”

Marian hesitated, fiddling with the cards in her hand as she resorted them left-to-right and then right-to-left. The air in the Hanged Man was sour, sticking in her throat, and it didn’t do any wonders for her already-turning stomach.

On the one hand, she didn’t know Varric and Isabela as well as she did Aveline. Isabela in particular she had met only a few days ago, and for a duel that had turned into an ambush and then into a shady conversation with an even shadier man. A man who was now dead, but still. She could get a lot of grief for her obsession with just a _voice_ of all things, and she got plenty of that from Carver already. On the other, she knew she would have a better chance of convincing the Knight-Commander she was the Divine than slipping a lie past these two.

She took a hurried sip from her mug, her eyes darting between them.

 _Oh, screw it_ , she thought.

She dropped her tankard back onto the table. “Maker’s breath, I _wish_ I knew who,” she confessed. She ran a hand through her hair with a ragged sigh. “I swear I’ve heard his voice in nearly every corner of Kirkwall, but I’ve never been able to pick him out, much less even find out his name.”

She paused, waiting for their reactions with a slight wince.

“A voice?” Isabela said, raising an eyebrow in interest. “Ooh, now I’m intrigued. What’s it like?”

Varric smirked. “Should I get a thesaurus?”

Marian smiled in return. What followed was a rather long but very pleasant discussion on all of the various words to describe said voice, from “grumbly” to “growly” to “gravelly,” and that was just the _g’s_. There were a few good-natured ribs at her, true, but no real criticism and not an ounce of disapproval. On the contrary, Isabela even made her promise to share in the “joy” of it if she happened to hear it again while she was around.

She decided: she liked Varric and Isabela. Even with the crummy contacts and somewhat hazy morals, they were all right in her book.

Which was just as well, since they were going on that job for Anso with her.

As was Carver.

Later that very evening, a familiar sigh resounded from behind her. “Why am I here?”

“Barring that being a philosophical question, Junior,” Varric said, “because you need the money.” He cocked his crossbow, Bianca, as they strode down the street. “And, in Kirkwall, this is one of the quickest ways to get it.”

“And Aveline would have my head if she knew I was still taking on smuggling jobs,” Marian added. She spotted a guard passing by on the opposite side of the street and quickly ducked her head in the hopes her bangs hid her face. “She always hated this type of work.”

Carver snorted. “And you didn’t bother to ask if I might hate it, too?”

“Try thinking of it as a character-building experience,” Isabela said. “It certainly couldn’t make yours any worse.”

“I… What?” Carver cried. “My character is _not_ that bad. I’ll have you know I… I…” He groaned. “Forget it. Let’s just get this over with.”

Marian silently agreed. Ahead of them, the Alienage, with its houses stacked several times too high and so close a person could barely fit a hand between them, loomed in the distance. The wooden gate, standing as tall as the towering stone walls around the buildings, had one door shut and the other left hanging wide open. She could just barely make out the descending steps beyond it in the growing darkness.

Hardly anyone spared them a glance as they approached, though they did earn a few odd stares once inside. Which wasn’t surprising, Marian thought. After all, it wasn’t as though the Alienage drew a lot of visitors.

Unless said visitors were up to something.

Which they were.

 _Maker, we stick out like a sore thumb_ , Marian internally groaned. She coughed awkwardly into her fist as she looked around. _Now which building did Anso say it was? Oh, that one!_

She threw a thumb towards the front door in what she hoped was a furtive manner. Judging by how several elves leaning against a nearby wall followed the gesture, it hadn’t been. She winced and coughed again.

Regardless, Isabela silently slid over to the door and gave the latch a gentle tug. The door swung open with nothing more than a small creak.

 _I guess there’s no point in locking up a place with supposedly nothing worth stealing_ , Marian mused.

Still, she hoped this was the right building. She dreaded the thought of accidentally marching into a family in the middle of supper.

With a sigh, Marian led the way inside, her staff at the ready.

Only to find the place empty.

Once she was beyond the sight of any outside onlookers, she summoned a wisp to be sure. The blue light swept across the walls and floor, scattering the shadows into dancing threads, but it illuminated no friend or foe. The room was barren, save for an overturned chair missing two legs and the cobwebs that hung from the ceiling.

And a strangely pristine chest against the far wall.

Isabela whispered, “That must be the missing shipment.”

Marian took four quick steps over and, after a glance for any obvious tripwires, opened it.

“It’s empty,” she grumbled.

“Ten silver that it’s a trap,” Isabela said.

“I’m not betting,” Marian said. “Of course it is!”

They drew their weapons and ran back to the entrance, but it was already too late. Several mercenaries flanked the doorway, their swords unsheathed and shining in the moonlight. Beyond them, a larger group of fighters waited in the clearing.

“That’s not the elf. Who is that?” a woman in splintmail at their forefront demanded.

“It doesn’t matter,” a man answered. “We were told to kill whoever enters that house.”

With a shout, one of the mercenaries at the door charged inside with his weapon swinging. Isabela parried the first strike, and a bolt from Varric stopped him before he could try another. Then Carver ran ahead to fend off the second swordsman. A third broke past the two and dashed towards Varric and herself.

Marian quickly sent a blast of frost at the mercenary, freezing him in his tracks.

Carver drove his sword through the fighter at his front before kicking him away, and Isabela plunged her dagger into the side of another that hurried after. They kept on, blades flying, bolts soaring, and magic flashing, but yet more mercenaries flooded in to take the place of the fallen.

“Maker’s breath, they keep coming!” Carver cried out.

“We have to get out of here,” Marian yelled. She shot another wave of ice at a mercenary who squeezed past. “We’ll be overrun if we stay!”

“Right behind you!” Varric said.

Marian cast a recovery spell over the group, and with a sudden rush of energy, they pushed through the line of fighters at the door and out into the open.

Without the cramped quarters of the room to hold him back, Carver began swinging his sword in wide arcs, felling multiple foes at once. Isabela danced between them, finishing off those that he missed, while Varric picked off the archers hiding at the back.

And as for Marian…

 _Andraste’s flaming ass, I hate fighting out in the open_ , she mentally groaned. She speared a mercenary who slipped past with the bladed end of her staff, and after he collapsed with a groan she swung him off. _Can’t use magic, can’t use magic_ , she reminded herself. There were people watching, and she held no doubts that not a one of them would hesitate to tip her off to the templars.

She swore she was going to tear Anso a new one once they found that dwarf.

Before long, the number of mercenaries began to dwindle, and a few minutes more after that, they all lay dead upon the ground.

Carver bent over, resting his hands on his knees as he gasped for air. “Finally!”

Isabela toed the arm of one corpse with her boot. “After all that, you’d think at least a few of them would have reconsidered and ran while they could,” she said. “Oh well. Time to loot the bodies!”

Marian peered at the fallen mercenaries in curiosity. Now that Isabela mentioned it, she found it odd how none of them had tried to retreat. In all her time in Kirkwall, she knew most hired swords to be more practical than that. After all, what was the use in getting paid if one wasn’t alive to enjoy it?

She knelt down next to a body and pushed it over onto its back. She noted with a grimace that the blood was still warm, and it came away wet on her hand.

 _Ugh. Should have turned it over with my staff_ , she thought.

She wiped off the blood as best she could on an unsoiled portion of the mercenary’s clothing. That was when she noticed the armor. Its design was unfamiliar, she realized; most likely of foreign make.

“I don’t know who you are, friend,” said a new voice, “but you made a serious mistake coming here.”

Marian looked up to find another man – similarly attired to those lying dead around her – walking down the stone stairs to them. She stood to face him, and Carver swiftly came to her side, his sword still drawn. Isabela and Varric followed suit shortly after, readying for another round.

The man paused at the bottom of the steps, staring them down. After several moments, he straightened and shouted, “Lieutenant, I want everyone in the clearing – _now_!”

Marian scowled. _Blast it, there’s more?_ she thought. _Maybe I’ll have to take a chance with my magic after all._ She swung her staff forward in ready, even as Carver gave her a disapproving glance, and focused on the heat of fire gathering up inside of her.

She paused when a man shuffled forward from around the bend up the stairs. Blood trailed thickly behind him, and he managed out only a weak murmur before collapsing.

Then she froze completely when she heard from further past:

“Your men are dead, and your trap is failed.”

It was the Voice, and it was coming directly towards her.


	5. Part Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Posted to FF.net and the DA kink meme on 1/15/2014. Transferred here on 5/5/2015.

“I suggest running back to your master while you can,” said the Voice.

The next moment, out of the shadows stepped the man Marian had been searching for – and failing miserably to find – for months.

Her eyes first caught on his hair, shining bright and silver in the moonlight. It took her a moment to realize that it wasn’t any trick of her sight in the dark but his real color. Below that, she spotted his pointed ears. An elf, though taller than most, and quite muscular. A steel plate protected his chest, glinting as it tapered down to his slim hips. His hands, too, glimmered, and she saw he was wearing matching gauntlets, one of which was wrapped around the hilt of a bloodied greatsword. The rest of him was clad in black leather armor, save for his head, his feet, and the curves of his biceps.

Revealing familiar, twining tattoos along dark skin.

 _Ohhh, shit, it’s the guy I saw at the docks_ , she thought with a mental whimper. _Stay calm, Marian. You’re not fourteen years old anymore. You can handle an incredibly sexy man._

Who was she kidding? She hadn’t even been able to handle dodging a flying crate.

She struggled for a greeting. “I… er…”

The elf took the last step and easily strode past the mercenary waiting at the bottom. He stopped several paces away from her and her companions, gazing at them with expectant green eyes. He didn’t seem to have noticed the thorough once-over she had just given him.

Before she could try speaking again, the mercenary snarled and grabbed the elf by the shoulder. “You’re going nowhere, slave!”

What happened next was a bit of a shock.

The white tattoos she had thought simply decorative suddenly flared to life. She could feel their power in the air – like magic, but not quite – as they flashed a brilliant blue.

Then the elf turned and shoved his fist through the man’s chest, killing him instantly.

“Neat trick,” Isabela said.

The elf pulled his hand back and let the corpse fall to the ground. The glow of his tattoos receded till they appeared innocuous once more. He turned back to their group, his eyes narrowed as he declared, “I am _not_ a slave.” Then, after a moment, his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he continued more softly, “I apologize. When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they’d be so… numerous.”

She knew she should have been paying attention, but that voice already did more things to her than any voice had a right to, and being able to watch the mouth that formed it as well scattered any lines of thought she might have had to the wind. His lips were as lush and sinfully curved as she remembered them being, if not more, and she couldn’t help imagining how soft they must be. Again, her mind began to wander with daydreams of them pressed to hers.

The elf cleared his throat, and she snapped her eyes back to his. He arched an eyebrow at her, and she realized he’d been waiting for a response.

In a panic, she sucked in a breath and then forced out what she hoped were words:

“Hhnnrrghhlghlhsmif.”

Nope, not words.

From next to her, Varric tapped her on the arm and whispered, “Do I need to handle this conversation?”

Before she could respond, the elf’s eyes abruptly widened, and he said, “Wait. I know you. You were the woman at the docks.” He grinned slightly, tapping a finger against his chin. “I hope you were able to pull yourself out all right?”

There was an accent there, she noticed even in her growing mortification. A slight one, better heard in the overly-formal tone of his voice, and she wasn’t sure where from, but there nonetheless. The realization sent a flush to her already-warm face and a rush of heat between her thighs.

She nodded and fumbled for a reply. “Uh… Well…”

“Docks?” Carver interrupted, glancing at her suspiciously. “When did you go to the docks?”

Isabela tittered excitedly. “Ohh, is this the one you were talking about, Hawke?”

It was official: Marian was going to die of embarrassment.

The elf was staring at her quite hard, though the glint of his gaze held only equal parts curiosity and confusion, not anger. At least for now. “‘The one’?” he repeated.

There was no way she could bluff past the matter at this point. _Come on, Marian_ , she told herself. _Just be a responsible adult and own up to it._ Never mind that she still couldn’t manage to cook water without burning it. “I-I… Y-Your voice is very distinctive.” _To put it lightly._ “I meant no offense.”

He raised his eyebrows, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “None taken.”

Oh, damn it. He was putting two and two together; he _had_ to be.

Marian coughed awkwardly into a fist. “S-So, these mercenaries… I take it they were after you?”

The growing warmth in the elf’s eyes flickered out. “I’m the reason you’re here, yes,” he replied, turning away as he quickly surveyed their surroundings. After a moment, he looked back at their group. “My name is Fenris. These men were Imperial bounty hunters, seeking to recover a magister’s lost property.” His eyes narrowed. “Namely myself.” He tapped a finger against his chin again. “They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely.”

As he spoke the last part, his eyes lingered on her in particular.

Marian resisted the urge to cover the growing blush on her cheeks. Was he _flirting_ with her? No, that couldn’t be. They’d just met, and between the carnage of the battle around them and her acting like a hopeless child, she couldn’t imagine a less romantic situation.

“Well, I’m glad to have helped,” Marian replied, a little breathlessly. “I’ve never liked slavers.”

 _“I’ve never liked slavers”? Who in the Fade_ does _?_ She chewed on her lower lip, suddenly anxious again. _Andraste’s panties, I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t shove his fist through_ my _chest next._

But he didn’t seem insulted. On the contrary, his lips twitched again, the hint of a smile curling their corners. But then it disappeared the next moment as he said, “I have met few in my travels who have sought anything more than personal gain.” He hesitated, uncertain. “If I may ask, what was in the chest? The one they kept in the house.”

Relief swept through her. “It was empty,” she replied.

He sighed. “I suppose it was too much to hope for. Even so, I had to know.”

“You were expecting something else?” Isabela asked.

“I was,” he answered and shook his head, “but I shouldn’t have. It was bait, nothing more.”

“You didn’t need to lie to get our help,” Carver said, rather snippily. Marian resisted the temptation to elbow him in the side. “We’re trustworthy people.”

“That remains to be seen,” the elf – Fenris, she remembered – said. He bent down next to the man he had recently killed and rifled through several of his pockets. He suddenly turned tense upon finding an object, though she couldn’t tell what from this distance. “It’s as I thought,” he muttered, standing. He turned to them again and continued more clearly, “My former master accompanied them to the city. I know you have questions, but I must confront him before he flees.” He paused, his eyes searching them for a long moment. “I will need your help.”

Marian opened her mouth, ready to answer with a resounding, “Yes!” But Carver beat her to it with a decidedly less enthusiastic response.

“You lured us into a trap, and now you want our help?” her brother said. “How do we know you’re telling the truth this time?”

She tightly gripped her staff to resist another urge of elbow-jabbing.

“If Anso had told you to divert an ambush of Tevinter bounty hunters, would you have done it?” Fenris asked, his tone sharp. With another sigh, his shoulders slumped, and he added more gently, “Had I known of you earlier, I might’ve asked you personally.”

That stirred up a whole new heap of fantasy material for Marian. Yes, he could’ve asked her personally. In her bedroom. The two of them alone. Preferably with him pushing her up against the wall and a thigh between her legs.

 _Focus on the present_ , she chided herself.

“I had only Anso to rely on, I fear,” Fenris continued, completely unaware of her thoughts. “I’m not lying to you now. Please, help me do this.”

Before Carver could protest again, Marian loudly declared, “Of course! After all, what’s more fun than killing slavers?”

 _Maker’s breath, what’s with me and slavers tonight?_ she silently groaned. She didn’t think she could shove her foot any further in her mouth without reaching down and throwing the other one in as well.

But again Fenris didn’t seem offended. “I will find a way to repay you, I swear it,” he said. “The magister is staying at a mansion in Hightown. We must enter before morning.”

Marian gestured to the stairs. “Lead the way.”

She ignored the stifled giggle and snort from behind her.

Whether Fenris noticed, she couldn’t tell. He simply nodded to her before turning to do so.

He kept them at a quick pace, though she had an inkling he could have gone even faster if he had wished. She wondered how powerful this magister must be for him to feel their help was so necessary. As they raced up the numerous steps that made up a good part of Kirkwall’s winding paths, the worrisome thought occurred to her that if things didn’t go well, they might not see the next morning.

Another part of her realized that, in his determination, he hadn’t even glanced at her since the Alienage. As foolish as she knew it was, she felt her heart sink in disappointment.

They reached the mansion in short time. They were fortunate in catching the streets at a low period, and they encountered no thugs along the way. As soon as they caught their breath, Fenris wordlessly showed them through a gate at the side of the estate, and they slunk through the alley and over to a side-door hidden in the shadows. The servants’ entrance, undoubtedly.

“It is quiet,” he said, “and I’ve seen no one stir within. Danarius – the magister – may know we’re here. I wouldn’t put it past him.” With a glance towards the door, he added, “I do not fear death, but that does not mean we should be reckless.”

He placed a hand on the latch and, at her nod, swung open the door.

Whatever subtlety they might have had planned flew out the window at what they saw. Demons and shades of all manners prowled about the manor, their dark, hulking forms soundless as they crept along, but it was still more than enough of a sight to make even a hardened veteran cower. Isabela let out a squeak and Carver a gasp, and at the sound, the specters saw them and charged.

Despite their intimidating appearance, the fiends were made short work of between the five of them, particularly Fenris. The elf wielded his blade as though it were but an extension of his arm, all smooth swings and flawless footwork. His sword appeared to not so much as hit the monsters as it did glide through them as if they were nothing more than water. Then with one quick motion, he would step forward and to the next. Several times, Marian had to catch herself from staring before a demon tore open her gut.

She blasted another shade with frost before it could swing its claws at her. It shrieked and swung away, straight into Carver’s blade. Then, spotting a demon sneaking up on Fenris as he fought another, she turned and cast a bolt of lightning at it. The monster went down with a scream.

Finally, the last shade fell to Isabela’s daggers, leaving the mansion eerily quiet once more.

Fenris dashed up to the master bedroom at the top of the stairs. “He must be in here!” he said, snarling when the door refused to budge. “It’s locked! Look for a key!”

The four of them dropped to the ground, sifting through the piles of debris and… whatever it was that shades left behind after death. _Ectoplasm? Goo?_ Marian wondered. Perhaps she was better off not knowing the specific name for it.

Varric abruptly rose with a shout. “Found it!”

“Give it here!” Fenris said, leaning over the bannister.

Varric threw it up to him, and Marian saw a glint of metal in the air before the elf caught it. With a low growl, Fenris stalked back to the door and shoved the key in. The lock opened with a click.

Then he was completely silent.

The four of them ran up the steps to find the elf looking around the – immaculate, but empty – bedroom with wide eyes.

As they entered, he turned to face them and shook his head. “Gone,” he said despondently. “I’d hoped…” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter any longer. I assume Danarius left valuables behind. Take them if you wish. I… need some air.”

With that, he marched past them and back down the steps.

After a moment of awkward silence, Isabela said, “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s grab everything that’s not nailed down!”

Varric, Carver, and the pirate herself immediately set to it, but Marian couldn’t help looking back the way Fenris had gone. The failure of finding this magister had obviously upset him greatly. Even though they’d only recently met, she wondered if there was anything she could say or do to help him feel better.

She glanced at her companions and, finding them wholly preoccupied, followed after the elf.

She came upon him a short ways out the front door, leaning against a marble pilaster. He glanced at her, a frown on his lips, but he made no move to rise or greet her. She couldn’t blame him for his irritability, not after what had happened.

Still, his silence didn’t give her much to go on. She nervously twisted her fingers together.

“I-I’m sorry we didn’t find him,” Marian said. “The magister.”

Fenris sighed and shook his head again. “It never ends,” he muttered bitterly. “I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and soul.”

Then he turned and glared at her.

“And now I find myself in the company of yet _another_ mage.”

Oh, that hadn’t sounded good. She held up her hands placatingly. “Please-”

The elf took several purposeful steps towards her, and she instinctively took two back before stopping herself. The memory of his tattoos flaring bright blue as he shoved his fist through the mercenary’s chest suddenly surfaced in her mind.

Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea coming out to talk to him alone.

“I saw you,” he said lowly, “casting spells inside. I should have realized sooner what you really were.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, and she didn’t miss the way his hand drifted down to rest on the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side. She became distinctively aware of the fact that he might attempt to kill her in the next few minutes.

 _So much for cheering him up_ , she thought.

“Tell me, then,” he continued. “What manner of mage are you? What is it that you seek?”

“I’m just trying to get by,” she replied.

But her answer didn’t settle him any. His eyes remained suspicious and acutely focused on her. “Yet I have seen many crimes done in the name of survival,” he said. “You-”

“If you have a problem with my sister, you have a problem with me,” a familiar voice cut in from behind her.

Marian felt the tension drain from her back. At least momentarily.

 _Carver!_ she thought. _Just in the nick of time._

“Are we interrupting a private party here?” another voice – Varric’s – said. She heard him cock his crossbow.

“Because you know,” another – Isabela – added, inspecting her dagger as she came around the corner, “how much we _love_ private parties.”

 _A rather cheesy entrance_ , Marian mused, _but nonetheless very appreciated._ She held back a sigh of relief. The next time they bought a round at the Hanged Man, it was on her.

Fenris’ eyes widened, and apparently realizing what impression he’d given, he quickly released his sword and threw his hands to his sides. “I imagine I appear ungrateful,” he said more kindly, though only just. “If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth. I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt.” He carefully drew a small bag out of a pocket hanging around his belt and offered it to her. “Here is all the coin I have, as Anso promised.”

She hesitated. Truthfully, she didn’t really want the money any longer, not after finding out what situation he was in. He needed the coin much more than her.

But then she recalled how her family hadn’t exactly been pleased with her after discovering the other twenty or so times she’d done the same. She reached out and accepted the bag with a weak smile. Still, she noticed that he made a concerted effort not to touch her, stiffly dropping the bag into her palm rather than simply handing it to her.

 _Well, I guess I never really had a chance anyway_ , she thought sadly. _At least I got to see him once._

He added, “Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly render it.”

She blinked. _Oh! He’s willing to stay?_ she thought, her heart leaping in hope.

“Right,” Carver bit out. “We’ll keep you in mind.”

For a second, Fenris’ expression fell, but then he ducked his head and the shadows covered it. “I see,” he said, turning to go. “Then I will not trouble you any further.”

 _Oh, shit! Nononono!_ Marian silently cried. “Wait!” she said, and the elf halted, looking back at her. She felt an elbow dig into her back, but she ignored it. “I, uh… You never told me why Danarius was after you.” He lifted his eyebrows at her in interest, and feeling encouraged, she continued, “It looked like your old master wanted something more than just a runaway slave.”

Fenris turned to fully face her again. “He doesn’t want me at all, just the markings on my skin,” he replied. “They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power that Danarius required of his pet. And now he wishes his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse.”

 _Now_ , she thought. _Now is the time to say something witty to lighten the mood. Like you usually do, Marian. Come on!_

“Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf.”

Oh, bugger. No, no, _no_ , she hadn’t just said that, because that was horrible and awful and he was surely going to tear out her heart for being such an ass and-

He giggled.

Yes, _giggled_.

He seemed to realize it at the same time as her, and he hastily covered it with a cough into his fist. Even then, a small smile lingered for several moments longer on his face as he went on to explain and offer his services again – which she accepted before Carver could butt in once more. He would remain at the mansion if she had any work for him, he said, but for tonight their business was concluded.

 _Well, that was interesting_ , she mused as they left. Perhaps not all was yet lost.


	6. Part Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Posted to FF.net and the DA kink meme on 1/22/2014. Transferred here on 5/5/2015.

In hindsight, it hadn’t been one of Marian’s better ideas.

She supposed from a distance that her behavior appeared rather… creepy. Or really creepy. But she was concerned and – fine, she’d admit it – intensely curious, and she didn’t know how to speak with Fenris without risking a likely-fatal punch to the chest.

To be honest, she _had_ tried to talk to him personally. Key word being “tried,” for after standing nearly an hour at the mansion’s front door at a loss for words, she’d given up with a sigh and gone home.

Well, given up for a short while. Then she had discovered the small alley that lay directly across the street from the manor. From noon till dusk it was cast in shadow and at night it was pitch-black, giving her the perfect location to watch from unobserved. She found it too good of an opportunity to pass up. True, she couldn’t see the back of the estate, but the front and much of the sides were visible, and none of the curtains that had been torn down in the scuffle had yet been replaced, offering her a shallow glimpse into its dark interior.

The shade was also much appreciated during the boiling summer days.

However, after a week’s worth of looking in her spare time, she wasn’t sure it mattered anyway. The place was dead. No one came, no one left, not even a footstep could be heard. More than a few times she wondered if he’d left despite his earlier words.

The thought disheartened her. As much as he’d shunned her, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. There were so many unanswered questions. He had said he’d once been a slave to a Tevinter magister, but even that was only a part. Had he been born in Tevinter, or had he been captured abroad? What was his family like? Did he have any friends or acquaintances aside from Anso? What did he like to do in his free time? And how in Andraste’s name did he make her melt every time he opened his mouth?

With each passing day, it seemed less likely that any of those questions would ever be answered.

 _Did he actually leave?_ she wondered again as she watched the manor one afternoon. She leaned against the cool stone wall, glad for the chill in the blistering heat of the day. Even in the shade, she could feel the hot air clawing at the edges of the shadows.

She peered across the street, hoping yet again to catch some movement in the mansion. The hint of a form, the brush of air against the shredded curtains, anything. But still there was nothing.

She wiped away a bead of sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand. _A week_ , she inwardly muttered to herself. _A week of watching, Marian, and you haven’t seen him even once. He probably left right after that night. He obviously wasn’t interested in being around you in particular._ She let out a low sigh. _I’m being foolish. I should just go and forget about him._

If nothing else, she’d never hear the end of it if anyone found out about her little “hobby.”

 _No, best to end it now_ , she thought. _Before something happens that I’ll regret._

She straightened and, eyeing the searing pavement, squared her shoulders against the blistering air she knew waited beyond the shade.

Then, from behind, a gauntleted hand shot out to cover her mouth, and an arm wrapped around her middle, trapping her own arms against her sides, to pull her back against a hard body. Adrenaline shot through her, and she struggled to free herself. But the person was strong, much stronger than herself, and she didn’t have the leverage to kick back. She began to call a ball of lightning to her hands.

… Only to let it fizzle out when a familiar – horribly, _deliciously_ familiar – voice hissed in her ear, “What are you doing here? Why have you been spying on the estate?”

 _Oh, that should_ not _have the effect on me that it does_ , Marian silently groaned.

For a moment, she worried that he could feel her blush even through the steel of his gauntlets. But that thought was quickly overshadowed by the much more realistic concern that he would try the “magic fist” thing on her soon, and not in any sort of good way.

Fenris pulled his hand away from her mouth, and she sucked in needy gasp of air. He didn’t relent in his grip around her middle, though.

“I wasn’t spying,” she said. He tightened his hold into an unforgiving vice, and she squeaked, both from the sharp pressure and the fact she could _feel_ the rolling muscles of his thighs and stomach under his leather armor. She hurriedly amended, “All right, I was spying! But not for the reasons you think.”

“We will see, mage,” he growled, but he loosened his grip all the same.

She took another desperate breath before continuing, “I, uh… I wanted to talk to you, but I couldn’t quite figure out how to go about it.”

“And this necessitated watching the mansion at all hours for the past several days?”

 _Week_ , she wanted to correct but resisted doing so. “You’re a _bit_ intimidating,” she said with what she hoped was a light tone.

He grunted. Then he released her completely and stepped back.

Marian wasn’t sure if she was entirely glad for her freedom or not. She rubbed at her stomach where his arm had pinched her and turned around. Fenris stood waiting a pace back, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

For a moment, she was smitten all over again. His muscular, lean body, the delicious angles of his face, and his exquisitely curved lips sent a sigh shuddering through every nerve in her body. Even his tattoos – for all their dangerous ability – made her nearly ache to find out how far they went. She could stare at him all day and never get tired of it.

His eyes narrowed at her, and she remembered with a flush that they had been in the middle of a rather important conversation.

Again, she found she couldn’t really blame him for his mood. Hanging around outside of one’s home at odd times didn’t lend well to a good impression, after all. Especially since their last conversation hadn’t exactly left him with warm, fuzzy feelings, and she _could_ have been spying for the hunters for all of how well he knew her. Speaking of which…

“Er, sorry about all that,” she said, running a hand along the back of her neck. “I really didn’t mean any harm, I swear. I just wanted to talk and didn’t know… how, exactly.” She fought the urge to wince.

With a snort, he dropped his arms back to his sides and strode past her.

She watched him go, disappointment sinking deep into her chest. _Good job, Marian_ , she thought with a sigh. _You could teach a class on how to scare off people you like._ She sadly gazed at him a moment longer as he walked up the stairs to the manor. Then she stepped out of the alley, the sun’s rays scorching against her skin, and turned to leave.

“Well?” she suddenly heard his voice call to her.

She stopped and looked back in surprise.

He stood at the top of the stairs, holding the door open as he watched her with a raised brow. “You said you wished to talk,” he added.

Her eyes widened. “You… wouldn’t mind?”

He shrugged. “I am here.”

She spun about and raced after him, a smile spreading across her face. “Oh! Then yes, please!”

He turned and entered the mansion without another word, and she followed. A rank, cloyingly-sweet odor hit her nose the moment she stepped inside, and she covered her lower face with a grimace. As her eyesight adjusted to the dark, she noticed several rotting corpses left lying in the main hall. They each wore armor similar to that she’d seen on the mercenaries the night she had met the elf. More Imperial hunters, no doubt.

She jabbed a thumb in their direction. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

A smile flickered at the edges of Fenris’ lips. “They slipped in two nights ago, evidently planning to take me by surprise. As you can see, their hopes fell somewhat short.” He started up the steps to the second floor. “Come. This way.”

At his admission, she grew concerned again. She considered offering her help to fend off such intruders in the future, but hesitation caught her from opening her mouth. For one, he didn’t seem very desirous of her aid any longer now that he knew of the whole “mage” matter. And, two, he could very well take the offer as an insult to his abilities. After all, he’d certainly been able to handle the hunters on his own.

Instead, she remained silent and simply followed him up.

The smell lessened the further they climbed the stairs. By the time they reached the master bedroom, it had nearly faded entirely. Then, as he shut the door behind her, it was as though it had never been.

Then she realized he _had_ closed the door. They were alone together and, considering they were the only ones alive in the manor, very much in private. She desperately tried to ignore the fact that, aside from the corpses, most of her fantasies started off in such a fashion.

“It was not my intent to frighten you,” Fenris said as he pulled a set of chairs upright near the empty fireplace. “My apologies, Hawke.”

“Marian.”

He looked at her. “What?”

“My name is Marian,” she said, tapping her chest. “Hawke is my family’s name. Varric Tethras was the dwarf you saw with me, Isabela was the woman, and Carver, my brother, was the one with the giant chip on his shoulder.” She grinned. “Don’t mind the last one too much.”

The familiar twitch returned to his lips for a brief second. “Very well, Hawke.”

She sighed. At least it was better than “mage.”

He gestured to the chairs with an open palm. She slipped into the one closest to herself, and he took the other.

As he did, she gave the room a quick glance. Unlike the rest of the manor, he’d apparently kept this space in serviceable condition. Aside from the chairs, there was a small wooden table, a closed armoire neatly set against the wall, and a large bed with sheets so pristine she wasn’t sure he’d ever even slept in it.

The thought flashed in her mind of pushing him down onto those sheets and ruining them in the best possible way.

“So,” he said, snapping her out of her reverie, “what is it that you wished to discuss?”

Marian froze. The truth of the matter was that, in the entire week she’d watched the manor, she’d never come with a specific subject in mind. As long as he was talking, she didn’t care much about what in particular. She did have an especially favorite daydream where he read _The Satinalia Surprise_ aloud to her, but she didn’t think she could convince him to do that. At least not yet.

Fenris frowned, arching an eyebrow at her silence. “You _did_ want to talk, didn’t you?”

“Er…” She struggled for a topic. Then she remembered a job she’d recently taken on. In all honesty, she’d already asked the others to come with her, though only Carver and Isabela had the free time to do so. _One more couldn’t hurt, and he’d probably like the extra coin_ , she thought. _Now just to persuade him!_

“There’s a, uh… job.”

Maker, where did her eloquence go around this man?

“A job,” he repeated flatly.

She twisted her fingers together. “Yes, a job,” she said. “It’s just some, ah, mercenary work. Escorting a merchant’s shipment from Kirkwall to the next town over. A few days’ trip at most.” She smiled rather lamely. “Nothing exciting, but at least it pays.”

 _By the Flames, that was terrible_ , she thought with a silent groan. _He’ll think it’s a complete waste of time!_

“Hmm,” he replied. He drummed his fingers against the bare wood of his armrest. “Very well, I shall accompany you.”

She blinked. “You will?” Then, before she could think better of it, she asked, “You wouldn’t mind working with a mage?”

 _Of course I would have to bring up_ that _again_ , she muttered to herself.

He narrowed his eyes at her, and she suppressed a wince as she anticipated him quickly retracting his prior agreement. But he only said, “You are not Danarius. Whether you are anything like him remains to be seen.”

She let out a quiet breath of relief. _Well, at least he’s giving me the benefit of the doubt_ , she thought. Which was quite a bit more than she could say for most people on that front. If they didn’t just swing a knife at her or tip off the templars right away.

“Right, right,” she said. She ran a hand against the nape of her neck as she tried to think of something more to say, but nothing came to her. At least nothing that she didn’t think would get her thrown out of the window. “Well, uh… I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” At his quizzical expression, she quickly added, “I mean the job starts tomorrow! So I’ll come by here in the morning for you? A couple hours before noon?”

He nodded. “Very well. I will be waiting.”

With the conversation evidently at an end, Marian beat a hasty retreat before she could say anything else to embarrass herself even further.

It was about several blocks away from the mansion, the summer air searing against her skin, that she realized exactly what sort of state she was in. She felt lightheaded, her breath coming a bit too quick, and her hands shook slightly. More, though, she noticed how soaked her smallclothes were. She could even feel the moisture beginning to rub against her thighs.

She ducked into a deserted alley to check herself over. Though she found no obvious wet spots on her breeches, she adjusted the hanging of her shirt to cover herself just in case.

Maker, what had she gotten herself into? Several days with a man who could do this to her with his voice alone – was she _trying_ to kill herself? She might not die from one of his fists, but she could very well perish from the torment of just being near him.

 _But first_ , she thought with a frown as she strode home, _a change of smallclothes._


	7. Part Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Posted to FF.net and the DA kink meme on 2/17/2014. Transferred here on 5/5/2015.

The job, as it turned out, did not kill Marian Hawke.

If one didn’t count as death having to listen to that deep, rumbling timbre for three seemingly-endless days, sometimes directed at her, more often not, but all the same thick and hoarse and plucking at every pleasurable nerve in her ears. Nor if one counted having to bear witness to that lithe body leap and twist in battle, defined muscles rippling under tight armor, his sword a streak of bright, lethal metal flowing from his arm. Nor if one counted the sight of him hiking in the unrelenting sun, sweat shining faintly on his brow, his calves flexing as he walked, or even more so watching him from behind and noticing the thin strip of bare flesh down the middle of his back, at once completely illogical because _who would leave their back unprotected_ and yet undeniably sexy because _the tattoos went further down_.

No, the job didn’t kill her. Nearly had her head taken off from a bandit she had overlooked in her gawking, yes, but not quite killed. It had only tormented her, turning her into a hot and bothered mess that had her silently thanking the Maker every other hour that she had thought ahead to bring a week’s worth of extra smallclothes just in case.

Then the job had finished, and like a dream she hadn’t been ready to yet have end, he accepted his payment and disappeared back to the Hightown mansion without another word.

Until the next job, that was. And the next, and the next.

For several weeks, Fenris accepted her offers of work, accompanying her and the others to alternately escort merchants about or threaten to clobber them over the head. Not anything adventurous or that really showed her good side – she swore she had one, somewhere, maybe tucked away in her other pair of pants – but he still followed.

And then, though he’d never previously taken her up on her – subtle and not pushy at all, she hoped – offers to come to the Hanged Man for drinks, he strode into the tavern one evening while she was playing Wicked Grace with Varric, Isabela, and Carver, got a mug of ale from Corff at the bar, and pulled up a chair next to her.

Whereupon he soundly beat her at cards.

Which didn’t matter, really, as Isabela and Varric then snatched up his earnings in just three rounds. At his loss, he slapped his cards down onto the table with a snarl, and she might have quivered a _little_ in response.

Carver scowled at her from her other side, but she ignored it.

They played more games, dealing cards as they traded with debts and stories, until empty mugs littered the space around them and Marian swore the table might bend if any more coin went to Isabela and Varric’s side. As it were, she’d run out of money several hours in, but sitting next to Fenris she found she didn’t mind one bit. Especially since he kept brushing against her – sometimes by leaning too close as he reached for something, other times with his bare fingertips as he handed her several cards. Accidental touches, she was sure; they were all more than a little tipsy by then. But they quietly thrilled her all the same, and she made no complaints.

In all, the evening passed by very pleasantly in her opinion. Then, later, after Fenris had left but before she’d managed to persuade a sloshed Carver to his feet to follow suit, Varric pulled her aside. In a corner away from the ruckus of the bar, he peered up at her and asked, “Are you sure about that broody elf, Hawke?”

She looked down at him, and that was a mistake. Her head spun, threatening to turn her world – or at least her – over. “Ish fine,” she said, closing her eyes. “I can handle myself.”

“Of course you can,” Varric said kindly, patting her side. “But you do know the elf is covered in spikes, like an angsty porcupine? He might have some… issues. And I know he has this _effect_ on you, and, well…”

She forced her eyes back open with a frown. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “He’s not interested in me. He doesn’t like mages, you know.”

“I wouldn’t be as certain of that,” he murmured.

She snorted and shook her head. “I’m too drunk for this. I should go home.”

“That,” Varric said with a grin, “I can agree with. Come on, I’ll help you get Junior out the door.”

He did, and with a shove and a grunt, they got Carver up – well, mostly hanging onto her shoulders – and out of the tavern. Varric waved goodbye, and she managed something-of-a-flap-of-her-arm back, and then it was just her brother and herself. The two of them stumbled down the street back to Gamlen’s hovel, the night dark and rank in Lowtown’s narrow streets. As grimy and foul-smelling as it could be, she was glad for its location right then. She couldn’t imagine navigating all of the steep, winding steps to another part of Kirkwall while soused and trying to lug her brother around after her.

A spike of concern struck her in the chest. She knew Fenris hadn’t left in the best of states either. Would he reach the mansion all right? What if more hunters were waiting there for him? He hadn’t had any more trouble since the first time she had visited him, but that didn’t mean more wouldn’t come in the future.

Carver groaned, slumping against her side. With a huff, she pulled him back up and continued on.

First, she had to get her brother home.

Even as drunk as they were, it didn’t take long to reach the small shack. Marian gently unlocked and pushed open the door, pausing a moment as she listened for any sound within. But all she could hear was the quiet exhalations of her mother, the occasional snuffle from Ser Barkley, and the deafening snores of Uncle Gamlen. She used the latter as cover for their footsteps as she pulled Carver in and over to a straw mat on the floor.

He fell back onto his meager bed with a small grumble, and she carefully turned him to lie on his side. After all, she didn’t want to come back to find him drowned in his vomit. He’d probably haunt her for failing to prevent such an ignoble death.

He grabbed weakly at her wrist when she began to pull away. “Wait,” he groaned.

She quickly shushed him. “I’m just stepping out for some fresh air,” she whispered. It was a lie, but he didn’t need to know that. “I’ll be here to cure your hangover in the morning, don’t worry.”

He grunted a vague protest, but his grip relented all the same. The next moment, he was asleep.

With that, she took hold of her staff and slipped back out into the night. The heat of the day had failed to fully ebb off into the sea below, leaving the evening uncomfortably muggy. She glanced around for a second for any passersby and, seeing none, pressed a frost-enchanted hand to her face. The chill sharpened her mind a little, though she knew only time would return her to full sobriety.

She set out through the dark streets, trusting her memory more than her sight to guide her up the increasingly-familiar path to Fenris’ mansion. Several times she had to slip into the shadows to avoid roving thugs, but she otherwise encountered little trouble.

As she strode down the final block to the estate, though, she hesitated. She remembered with a wince the time Fenris had caught her spying in the alley. Even though she had only good intentions this time – which had nothing to do with listening to that toe-curling voice, really, honestly, truly – she wasn’t so foolish as to assume he’d take her little check-up without insult.

She edged closer to the silent manor. _A quick peek_ , she thought. _Just to make sure he actually made it, and then I’ll leave._

It was not to be.

She took five tentative steps inside before she walked on a pile of broken glass in the darkness. While her boots fortunately protected her from any injury, they didn’t prevent the loud, tinkling crash of the material across the stone tile, echoing through the main hall, up the stairs, and down the floors.

“Who’s there?” Fenris’ gravelly voice shouted back.

 _Yup, he got back fine_ , she thought. _Time to leave!_

She spun on her heel, about to flee as fast as her legs could carry her, when she recalled a second too late she was still standing in the glass. She slipped on a piece and fell backward – luckily _outside_ of the pile of shards – and onto her rear. Her staff slipped out of her hand as she fell, hitting the floor with a clatter shortly after she did. “Shit!” she cried. That’d _hurt_!

She reached down to rub her sore bottom, but the rapid slap of bare feet against the floor stopped her.

Instead, she hastily scanned the stone tiles around her in search of her staff. If she could just get out quickly enough, maybe Fenris wouldn’t see her, and he would simply chalk up the noise to a failed burglary. But the damned stick had rolled out of sight and further into the darkness, and without an illumination spell, she knew there was no way she would find it.

She had also underestimated the acuity of his hearing.

“Hawke?” Fenris called out, a thread of concern in his voice. The footsteps were coming closer. “Is that you?”

Screw the staff. She needed to leave, _now_.

She scrambled to get to her feet again to run, or at least to all fours so she could crawl away. But as she turned, she glanced at the stairs, and it was then that she discovered, in addition to his hearing, she had misjudged his speed. He was already coming down the steps, his gauntlets on and his sword hanging at his side.

“Hawke?” he said again, his brow creased. “Are you all right? What are you doing here?”

 _Well, this can’t get much worse_ , she thought. “I… uh…”

As she struggled for an answer, she watched him weave around the lines of glass upon the floor – with a rather unfair amount of ease, she thought, and then realized he’d probably been the one to set them up in the first place – and over to her. Then he was grasping her by the arms and pulling her up. His palms brushed against her bare skin through the gaps in his gauntlets, and the brief contact sent a jolt of heat through her.

The warmth lingered even after he set her back on her feet and released her. Which wasn’t helped any by the fact that he didn’t back away. They stood close to one another, barely a foot apart, and each time he exhaled she could feel a faint puff of breath rolling across her neck. Before she quite realized it, her gaze had drifted down from his expressive green eyes to his lush, curving lips.

“Hawke?” he said yet again.

She flushed, snapping her eyes back to his with a mental slap. She tried to ignore the lingering image of how his mouth had parted ever so slightly with the word.

“I… I was just leaving,” she finally answered, smiling weakly.

But he only frowned. “What are you doing here, Hawke?” he asked again. Her name came more harshly this time, and the growl of it shot a bolt of arousal straight down to her nethers. She couldn’t help the resulting tremble, and his eyes narrowed at her. “Hawke,” he repeated, and she shivered again. A smirk twisted the corner of his lips. “ _Hawke_.”

Maker, she didn’t even _like_ being called “Hawke,” and already she was soaked.

Feeling her control weaken, like a thread about to snap, she forced herself to take a step back. He took a step forward, his grin slowly growing.

By the Flames, this had been a terrible idea. A terrible, horrible, _awful_ idea. They were both drunk and she was bloody stupid for coming in the first place and they hardly knew each other and there was _no way_ this could end well and… and…

And right then she couldn’t think of anything she wanted more.

Miraculously, she managed another step back, and another, and another, broken glass and rotting corpses completely forgotten in her fraying need to run. He followed after, effortlessly avoiding each, his eyes sharp and dark as they bored into her own.

The cool stone wall suddenly met her back, and she scrabbled at its smooth surface as though it would yield an escape switch.

Fenris stepped closer. “ _Hawke_ ,” he said again, reaching for her with a gauntleted hand. “ _Hawke_.”

Then a new voice broke in: “Hawke?”

They froze.

Fenris’ gaze flicked between her and back towards the front door where the sound had come. His outstretched hand hung but several inches short of her shoulder. It wavered slightly, his fingers flexing in the air.

“Hawke, are you in here?” came the voice again, and this time Marian almost groaned.

It was Aveline.

“I saw you come inside, Hawke,” the guardswoman continued. “I- Shit!”

Another heap of glass crashed over the floor, followed shortly by a loud whump and a pained hiss.

Fenris locked eyes with Marian for another second, and then his hand dropped to his side and he turned toward the entry. Once Marian was sure her heart wouldn’t leap out of her chest, she followed after. The two of them found the red-headed woman only a few steps inside, her feet still lying in the pile of glass – the same pile she had slipped in, Marian realized with a blush – and a glower on her face.

“Fenris,” Aveline said with a groan, “why is your home such a mess?”

“I apologize,” Fenris said as he hauled her up. “It helps to deter unwelcome visitors.”

The guardswoman looked around the dilapidated hall with a raised brow. “Of which I’m sure you get many.”

To Marian’s surprise, Fenris glanced at her. “Not… always unwelcome,” he said.

Aveline narrowed her eyes, her gaze darting between the two of them. She opened her mouth, seeming about to ask a question, but then she suddenly shut it and simply shook her head. “Ugh, forget it,” she said, looking at Marian. “Listen, I just found out about a possible ambush on a caravan, and when I saw you walking down the street earlier, I…” When Marian only stared blankly at her, she grabbed hold of the mage by the elbow and began dragging her back. “I need to talk to you, Hawke. Now.”

Marian had little time to protest, as the guardswoman pulled her out so quickly she could have blinked and missed it. She looked back, hoping to catch sight of Fenris still waiting in the foyer, but the elf had already disappeared back into the manor. Her chest twinged sharply in disappointment, and she nearly cursed out loud. But then the guardswoman was tugging her along further down the street at a pace that had her jogging to keep up. A somewhat difficult task, considering her current state.

Aveline dragged her along for another two blocks before abruptly turning into an alleyway and letting her go. Carried by momentum and the lingering alcohol in her system, Marian stumbled forward another few feet before stopping herself and spinning about to face the guardswoman.

At that, Aveline groaned. “Are you drunk, Hawke?” she asked.

Marian leaned back against the wall of the alley. Her heart still raced a little from what had just happened with Fenris – _whatever_ that had been – and her body thrummed with the unsatisfied heat pulsing between her thighs. “Not enough,” Marian muttered.

Aveline pressed a hand to her forehead with a sigh. “Maker’s breath, how did you even reach Fenris’ mansion all the way from Lowtown?”

“I flew, obviously,” Marian replied.

Aveline snorted. “I’m taking you home, Hawke,” she said, stepping over to Marian and swinging one of the mage’s arms over her shoulders. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Marian groaned. She didn’t do mornings well, and preferably not at all. Especially not after a night of drinking. “You’re shitting me,” she said.

“An hour after dawn, at the barracks.”

Marian grumbled but didn’t resist as the guardswoman began hauling her back to Lowtown. At least with Aveline there was no need to hide; most thieves and brigands were too scared of the tall, stern-faced woman to even try approaching, and those who weren’t only took a hard stare to convince otherwise.

 _She should be the guard-captain_ , Marian thought. _She’d cow the entire city into peace with a glare._

They made it to Gamlen’s hovel in short time, and Marian sighed as Aveline unlocked the door, dragged her inside, and set her down on a pallet. She murmured a soft “thanks” as the guardswoman left, and a few moments later the door clicked shut.

With a groan, Marian settled into her thin bed, closed her eyes, and turned her mind from the snoring of her family to more pleasant things, like black leather jerkins, forest-green eyes, manor halls, and-

Her eyes snapped opened.

She had left her staff at Fenris’ mansion.

 _Shit_ , she thought. She had no idea how she was going to explain that in the morning.


	8. Part Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Posted to FF.net and the DA kink meme on 4/3/2014. Transferred here on 5/5/2015.

The morning came, and as matters turned out, Marian’s worries went unmet.

She found her staff long before anyone thought to complain about its absence, albeit in an odd location. It stood, inexplicably nestled in the gutter drain that ran down the exterior wall, about several paces’ distance from the front door. Normally they had a barrel set out to collect rainwater from the roof, but as the scorching summer had seen fit to be as unrelenting as ever for the past week, they had brought it inside so as not to tempt anyone to steal it.

Yes, barrel theft. Truly, times were low.

As surprised as she was to find her staff there, she was much happier to have it in her grasp again. The wooden heft of it in her hand and the way its enchanted core seemed to warm to her touch brought a reassured smile to her face, and the sight of its sharp, bladed end wasn’t half-bad either. She did appreciate how thugs and the like hesitated when she had it pointed at their nethers.

More so, though, she would have been even happier to have found it _first_.

“Wait just a- Marian, is that your _staff_ in the drain?” Carver asked as they walked out.

She froze mid-step at the edge of the stairs.

She had been rushing them that morning, both for the fact that by the time she woke she was nearly late for Aveline’s meeting and out of hope of dodging her mother’s questioning if she ran fast enough. She had only time to take a quick wash, slap a healing spell on her head, smack another healing spell onto Carver’s, and then she was sprinting out the door with her brother and hound in tow.

She hadn’t even thought to look. Maker, she’d assumed the blasted stave was still at Fenris’ manor, caught against a wall or a corpse and already heartily working on its dust collection.

Marian slowly twisted on her heel, at once hoping and dreading it was there.

It was.

“So it is my staff!” she replied, darting over and plucking it out of the crevasse. She rolled the length of it along her hands, brushing off the dirt that had stuck. “And in quite good condition, too, don’t you think?”

Carver narrowed his eyes at her. “Didn’t you leave that inside last night?”

She shrugged, avoiding his gaze as she turned back and started down the steps. “It must have gone for a walk,” she said, patting Ser Barkley on the head as she passed. The mabari huffed happily and trotted after her.

Carver followed. “ _Right_. Then why was it outside this morning?”

She quickened her pace to keep ahead. “Lost its key, I guess.”

He snorted but thankfully let off asking any further. Which was good, because she was about to start including dragons, demons, and an especially insistent cobbler in her excuses.

Still, unseen to Carver, she worried at her lower lip as she led the way to the barracks.

 _Someone_ must have brought her stave. After all, it wasn’t as though it could find its own way home. No, she knew someone had gone through the trouble of lugging it to Gamlen’s hovel in the dead of night and, what was more, thinking to hide it.

If it had been but a dropped book or forgotten glove, she could have brushed off the matter entirely. But it was a _mage’s_ staff, and with that came risks. Templar risks, to be exact. True, a fair lot of those in Kirkwall were as thick as mud about such things, but more than a few had given her a long, hard stare as she walked by on the street with it in hand, and one had outright questioned her in the last week alone. Once they got a suspicion into their heads, they stuck to it as though their next raise depended on it. She didn’t doubt they’d even stop a dwarf if they felt enough of a notion.

She frowned at the thought. Surely Varric hadn’t returned her staff. She could imagine him bursting in with a wide grin and a tall tale on his tongue, but sneaky he wasn’t. Not so much because he was bad at it, but rather that he was a firm believer in that a story, if told well enough, could make the truth look like a lie. Neither had Isabela returned her staff, she was certain. She could barely get the pirate to pick up a round of drinks at the bar without promising her a new dagger or an especially dirty book of poetry in return. And Aveline? If the woman could even be bothered to look up from her work, she surely wouldn’t have let it go without a lecture.

Which only left…

 _No_ , Marian thought. _That can’t be. He would never!_

But no others came to mind who would. Few people knew what her stave looked like offhand, and even fewer cared enough if she had it on hand. Aside from her mabari Ser Barkley, she couldn’t imagine anyone else who’d have returned it without demanding a ten-page report of how she’d lost it in the first place.

And so it _had_ to be him, and yet…

 _Fenris, of all people?_ she wondered. It made sense, as it was his mansion she’d lost it at. But it was also clear the man had serious misgivings about magic and its means. She’d honestly expected him to sneer at the stave upon finding it, maybe even throw a sheet over the length of wood to put it out of his sight. _But… pick it up?_ she thought. _And even risk carrying it all the way to Lowtown?_

By the Blight, what if there was some truth to Varric’s words the previous night after all?

She pressed a breath between her lips as she ran her thumb against the grain of her stave. She thought of Fenris’ hands on it, those long digits of burnished bronze curling around the same space hers now rested. His touch hot, fingers battle-roughened and possessing a strength belying their slender appearance.

Her mind flashed back to that night in the mansion, how he’d pulled her to her feet with a firmness she knew could have just as easily pinned her against a wall. He’d looked at her then with intent, his green eyes dark and hungry, as though he were trying to swallow her whole in their depths. And when he spoke, the name “Hawke” slipping from his lips like a breath of smoke and ash, the growl of his voice had seemed to shake the very fiber of her being.

Her foot nearly missed a step as she climbed the stairs to Hightown, and she shook her head to dismiss the memory. _No, not now_ , she thought. She had to talk with Aveline. Any fantasies about Fenris would have to wait till she was back at Gamlen’s house, in bed, at night, and with her fingers down her smallclothes.

But the recollection clung, the remembrance of his hands tingling on her arms and the echo of his throaty voice a purr in the back of her mind.

She shook her head again, frowning.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Carver asked from behind.

Marian nearly jumped in surprise. “N-Nothing,” she said, blushing as she silently chastised herself. Teach her to get stuck in her own head!

She focused back on the street ahead in determination. Later, she promised herself, she would talk to Fenris. She would find out what had happened that night, and more so what it meant between them, if anything more than a drunken whim.

 _But first_ , she thought, _to take care of this business with Aveline._

And like most anything in Kirkwall, it didn’t take long for something referred to in any way a “business” to turn into a bloody mess. Often with more of an emphasis on the blood.

Even with Bianca’s kind assistance by way of Varric, the work lasted well into the evening, with enough running back and forth that she wouldn’t have been surprised to find they had trekked the total length of Kirkwall’s streets two times over. And killed enough bandits to fill a graveyard. Several times she wondered if she should have asked Fenris to come instead in the hopes of getting him alone, but the lingering uncertainties between them made her glad she hadn’t. Besides which, hacking through ambushers on the Wounded Coast was probably not high up on the list of romantic places to confess one’s feelings.

Instead, by the time they had finished, it was enough of an effort to see Varric back to the Hanged Man and then drag Carver and herself home without waking up the entire neighborhood with their groans of pain.

A good day, it wasn’t.

The next day, however, proved slightly better. Ser Barkley was easy enough to leave at home, if one could block out Gamlen’s long-suffering groans. Mother had requisitioned Carver to help work on the holes in the roof, _much_ to his evident delight, and Aveline found herself immersed in her responsibilities as Kirkwall’s newest guard-captain. Varric had abruptly disappeared from his quarters that morning, to return at an undetermined time, at the latest rumor of Merchants Guild cronies out to hound him. Likely for missing yet another meeting, knowing him. And Isabela… Marian wasn’t sure where exactly she had gone off to or why.

Though she did wonder that she had never seen quite so many Qunari in the Hanged Man at once. Or any at all, if she recalled correctly. Nor had she ever heard the tavern so quiet. It was almost civil by Hightown standards, save for the piss, vomit, and patrons themselves.

She waved and smiled at one of the tall, horned men as she made to leave, but he only snorted.

 _Charming_ , she thought.

But she didn’t linger on the matter for long. As her obligations dropped away, her mind quickly turned to much more pleasing subjects. Or, rather, a person.

She was free to visit him, or at least try. She had no idea if he was away on other work right then, but it couldn’t hurt to check.

As she strode up the steps to Hightown, tiptoed her way past the chantry, and strolled over to the mansion, she grew increasingly nervous, uncertain, and yet… did she dare say giddy? She could hardly mistake the lightness of her heart and her leaping stomach for anything else. Except maybe a flu, but she doubted that right then.

Had he really been the one to return her staff? Was her magic not as off-putting to him as he’d originally let on? And, perhaps, did he even desire her in return?

Or maybe she had only imagined it all in her desperation.

Marian hesitated on the manor doorstep, her hand poised to knock. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and finally rapped upon the door.

No answer came.

She raised her hand to knock once more, only to hesitate again.

 _Maybe… Maybe I shouldn’t have come_ , she thought, taking a step back.

But then the latch turned, and the door creaked open.

Fenris stood on the other side, his eyes widening slightly upon seeing her. “I… Hawke,” he said simply.

She smiled weakly. “Uh… Hello.”

An awkward silence descended on them as she waited for a response. But he only stared at her, still as a statue and the door partway open.

Finally, she said, “Can I come in? I mean, is this a bad time to talk?”

He paused, his eyes flitting away for a moment. “No, this is fine,” he said at last, stepping aside to let her in.

She did, slipping inside and then watching him as he closed the door behind her. He, however, paid her no mind, not even glancing at her as he turned and headed for the stairs to the second floor. She lingered for a moment, uncertainty chasing at the ends of her thoughts, before she followed.

The daylight beaming through the windows – both broken and whole – made navigating the mansion considerably easier this time around. In the foyer she noticed a conspicuous lack of glass, though she couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad sign. Beyond the entry, the main hall remained much the same, dirt gathering in the mortar between the stone tiles and grime sticking to the corners of the walls. As they climbed the stairway, she noticed that the edges of several of the steps had already begun to wear away.

 _Definitely adds to the you-are-not-welcome-here ambiance_ , she thought.

But then her mind flashed back to that drunken night once more. Shortly before Aveline had dragged her out, he’d glanced at her, something approaching genuine warmth in his eyes.

“ _Not… always unwelcome_ ,” he’d said.

A blush chased across her cheeks at the memory. She desperately pressed a frost-spelled hand to her face, hoping it would abate before they reached the bedroom. She was glad then that Fenris walked ahead of her, for it left him unaware of her current state.

 _Well, that, and for other reasons_ , she thought, ogling his rear end quite openly.

She tore her eyes back to his face and dismissed her spell when they reached the landing and he turned around. For a moment she thought she saw his eyebrow quirk slightly and his lips twitch at the corners, but she blinked and his expression was impassive as ever.

“My apologies, Hawke,” he said, “but my quarters… are not in suitable condition right now. Would you mind if we spoke in another room?”

She shook her head no, even as she wondered what he meant by “suitable condition.”

He led her further down the upstairs hallway, and she hesitated only a moment before she let her eyes drift south along his back once more. The black leggings were sinfully tight over his legs, and though his jerkin hid most of his posterior at this angle, the slight hint of taut flesh was enough to make her bite her lower lip.

Maker, was there anything about this man that wasn’t perfect?

“In here,” he said, opening a door to a room near the end of the corridor.

She quickly dragged her eyes back to his, offering him a small smile as she strode past and inside.

And halted three steps in as she finally looked around.

Like Fenris’ quarters – at least when she had last seen them – the room was in serviceable order. The floor was clear of debris, and while no pictures remained on the walls, the paint had kept in good shape. Several full bookcases lined the far wall, though the dust on their shelves told her no one had taken advantage of their contents for some time. From where she stood, she could make out a few titles: _An Economic Report of the Empire, Volume 23_ ; _Civic Laws of the Estates, Codes 50-200_ ; _Agricultural Statistics of Starkhaven 9:05-25_ …

 _Ugh_ , she thought with a scowl. _No wonder why Fenris hasn’t touched them._

A large oak desk hugged the adjoining wall, its surface clear of any inkwells, paper, or other materials. Unlike the bookcases, however, it was clean. Well, relatively. No dust that she could tell right off, and the handles hadn’t yet begun to rust. She wondered briefly if Fenris had used it recently, and if so, what for.

Then an image flashed in her mind of Fenris taking her by the shoulders and pushing her back and onto the hard desk, his eyes dark and desirous, his body a hot, unyielding line against hers, barely a breath between them. Then he was crushing his lips against hers, a growl in his lyrium-lined throat, as he tore at the laces of her breeches in impatience. He pulled away, only to lean over and whisper in her ear-

“Hawke?”

Marian blinked at the note of confusion in Fenris’ voice, and then she realized it had been but a daydream. She flushed and rubbed at her neck, glancing over at where she saw him beside a set of chairs near a bay window on the other side of the room. “I, er… Yes?” she replied.

His eyebrow arched. “I was saying we could sit over here. Unless…?”

“No, no! This is fine!” she said, hurrying over and nearly throwing herself into one of the seats. The impact sent a cloud of dust billowing up out of the cushion, and she sneezed. “Sorry!” she said, rubbing her nose. “I wasn’t expecting quite so much. Maybe I could come over and clean up a bit for you sometime?”

 _Anything that would allow me to hear more of that amazing voice_ , she wistfully thought.

But Fenris shook his head with a small chuckle as he sat down across from her. “No, that is not necessary,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “But thank you all the same for the offer.”

She pushed back the moue of disappointment forming at the corners of her mouth and instead simply nodded.

Another uncomfortable quiet fell over them.

Marian found herself looking everywhere but at the man across from her. Back to the bookshelves, trying to pick out more titles, and then to the ceiling where a single crack had begun to creep out from the center, and then out the window that overlooked the withered garden in the courtyard, and then back to the shelves.

Maker, what was wrong with her? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t talked to him alone a dozen times before.

“So,” Fenris finally said, and she snapped her eyes back to his, “you wished to speak with me?”

“Y-Yes, I did- I mean _do_! I do wish to speak with you,” she said, her breath coming in a nervous wheeze. “You see, I… That is…” _Come on! Out with already, Marian!_ she inwardly shouted. “The other night when we…” She noticed Fenris shift in his seat, leaning forward slightly in what she hoped for a second was interest, but his eyes were as guarded as ever. “When we… When we were playing cards.”

Though he didn’t move, his expression somehow flattened even further. “Cards,” he said.

“Yes!” she said with a cheery smile, even as she mentally kicked herself. “I was wondering if you had enjoyed it.”

He stared at her in silence for a long moment. “It was… interesting,” he said. “Why?”

She shifted uncertainly in her own chair. She wished she could tell what meaning lurked behind his eyes, but his voice and demeanor remained stone-faced. “Do you think you’ll come again?” she asked.

He slowly uncoiled, sitting straight in his seat once more, his arms rigid at his sides. “I’ll consider it.”

“Ah,” she said. “Well, I’m… I’m glad you came.”

She thought she saw his eyes twitch, a flash of gold dancing in their green depths from the sunlight filtering into the room. He nodded sharply in acknowledgement. As the silence threatened to stretch, he abruptly said, “Was there anything else?”

She chewed on her lower lip, her eyes darting away again. _Now_ , she told herself. _Now’s the time to ask!_ “I was also wondering,” she began, turning her gaze back to his.

And was surprised to find his own not focused on her eyes as she had expected, but further down, on her lips. She hesitated, and the sudden quiet broke the moment. He jerked his gaze back to hers, his face unreadable once more.

“Yes?” he said.

“I, uh… was wondering,” she tried again, her throat strangely dry, “if you… were still interested in more work?” She silently cursed herself.

He stiffened slightly, as if surprised. “Yes,” he replied. “You need only ask, Hawke.”

“A-Ah, good,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck again.

They lapsed back into a strange silence, broken only by the occasional cooing of a pigeon outside.

 _Perhaps this was a bad idea_ , Marian thought. If so, it certainly wasn’t her first.

Fenris didn’t seem to be pushing her away, but all of the eagerness he’d shown that night was nowhere to be found in his rigid posture and wooden expression. It was just his usual self – the aloof, cautious elf she could barely persuade out of the manor most days, much less get to speak beyond monosyllable answers.

She knew he had been drinking that night, however; perhaps that was simply how he acted in such a state. There was a chance he didn’t even remember much of their encounter.

Or maybe he didn’t want to talk about it.

She hid her growing disappointment behind another nervous smile. “Well,” she said, “I’ve probably taken up enough of your time. I’d better get going.”

A thread of gold flashed in his eyes again. The sunlight shifting or a tiny change in expression, she couldn’t tell for sure. “It is no trouble, Hawke,” he said, his rough timbre studiously even. “We’ll talk more another time, then?”

She paused as she rose from her chair, caught off-guard by the question and the sudden heat blooming in her chest. Whatever had happened that night, she at least hadn’t lost their growing friendship.

She nodded, smiling. “Of course, Fenris.”

But despite the many chances she enjoyed over the days to come to hear his low, husky voice – both awake and in her dreams – the subject of that one night never came up. By the way Varric and Isabela kept looking at her expectantly, she could safely assume Fenris never discussed it with anyone else either.

The weeks passed, and nothing happened.

Well, not quite “nothing.” In exchange for a map, she got caught up in a plan with a renegade healer called Anders to free a Circle mage – a scheme that went downhill, hit the bottom, and then decided to start digging until they were all thoroughly covered in templar unmentionables. After that, she found her hands full showing Merrill, a young Dalish woman who seemed a little too fond of broken mirrors, the twists and turns of Kirkwall life, and she didn’t mean just the roads. Honestly, she wasn’t sure how the poor girl would survive long in the city, though she was glad Varric, Isabela, and even Carver had taken up an interest in her wellbeing.

Well, perhaps more than just an “interest” in Carver’s case, if his attempts to catch the girl’s attention were anything to go by. And she had thought _she_ was bad at flirting!

Then, one day, the first autumn rain pounding on the shingles in Hightown, Marian ventured out on the Deep Roads expedition with Varric, Carver, and Anders, and after that she didn’t care much about flirting at all. With Bartrand’s betrayal and Carver’s recruitment into the Grey Wardens heavy on her mind, little mattered to her for some weeks. In time, the pain dulled, and she grew closer to Anders and Merrill. But Fenris continued to linger at the periphery of her circle of friends and life in general, not quite gone, but never entirely there.

The months passed, and nothing happened.

She moved into the Amell estate in Hightown with her mother, Bodahn Feddic, and Sandal. A better home than what she’d had in Lowtown with Gamlen, but also a bitter one at the cost it’d taken. Eventually, they received word from Carver that he had survived his Joining and begun adjusting to his Warden duties. A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. She also welcomed a brother-prince by the name of Sebastian Vael into their little group, and though she was slow to warm to the man, she was glad to see Fenris at last finding a friend in someone besides herself. Meanwhile, the situation with the Qunari worsened, the templars’ hold over the mages tightened, and the sky was blue.

The years passed, and, still, nothing happened.

Until one day she happened upon a book abandoned in an alley. It was a small tome bound neatly in leather and, though a little damp around the edges, in good condition. The title page inside read _A Slave’s Life_ , and a quick skim of its pages enlightened her that it was by Shartan in particular. Though she had never been much of a Chantry enthusiast, she remembered the gist of the story well enough.

Knowing Fenris’ past and his growing friendship with Sebastian, she took the volume in the hopes the elf might appreciate it.

His reception to it, however, was somewhat less than expected.

“It’s… It’s a book,” he said, after she had caught him returning to his mansion and presented him the gift. He didn’t move to take it from her hand.

She smiled weakly, suddenly uncertain. “It’s by Shartan, the elf who helped Andraste free the slaves,” she said. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

The explanation didn’t seem to relax him any, but he finally accepted the volume. He carefully pressed it between his hands, though he didn’t open it. “I know a little about him,” he replied, his gaze darting away for a second. “It’s just… slaves are not permitted to read. I’ve never learned.”

Her eyes widened as she finally understood. The hesitation, the untouched library…

Then, before she could stop herself, she breathlessly said, “It’s never too late to _learn_ , Fenris.”

She flushed in mortification. Maker’s breath, she hadn’t really said it in _that_ tone, had she? She sounded like she’d been taking lessons from Isabela on sultry purrs. Which she had, admittedly, but certainly not for a time like this!

Marian opened her mouth, about to apologize profusely, when Fenris smirked.

“Oh, really?” he replied, and something in his timbre made her shiver – well, more so than usual. “I’ve always wanted to learn more of Shartan. Perhaps this is my chance.”

His voice had dropped an octave, she realized. Now the sound of it was a deep, warm rumble, like that of an approaching storm cloud after a long summer drought. She wanted to wrap herself in that voice, to hear its contented murmurs at night, to listen to its dulcet notes in the morn, to welcome his gasps and moans of pleasure, breath catching in his lean throat, his-

She forced herself back into the present. “I-I’d be happy to help,” she said, her breathlessness now more than a little real. “To t-teach, I mean.”

The curve of his lips softened slightly, caught halfway between an arch grin and a grateful smile. He gently ran the tips of his gauntleted fingers along the book’s spine, and for a second she imagined them running along hers. She shook herself back to the present again.“I appreciate it,” he said. “What time would work best for you?”

She desperately tried to think. Her mother had persuaded – or, more aptly, guilted – her into coming to a dinner with the Rutledges later that day, but her next afternoon and evening were free. “How about tomorrow a couple of hours after noon at my place?” she said. “We can study in the library.”

He nodded. “Very well. Is there anything I should bring?”

“No, just you and your voice.”

His eyebrow rose, and she realized a second later in growing horror what she had just said.

She quickly added, “S-So I can hear you read!”

“Of course,” he murmured simply, though the amused twitch of his lips spoke otherwise. He tucked the book under his arm and stepped closer to her, stopping at an arm’s length. Close, but not too close, just enough to feel the barest brush of his warm breath on her lips as he said, drenching the last word in his honey-thick timbre the same as he’d done that _one night_ so long ago, “I’ll see you then, _Hawke_.”

And then he turned and disappeared into the manor.

She stood frozen to the spot, staring after him in shock of what had just happened.

Had Fenris just _flirted_ with her? And while sober, no less?

She struggled with the thought – much less the apparent reality – for several long moments before heaving a – equally parts incredulous and ardent – sigh. Maker, after so many years, and _now_ he showed some interest? The aggravation she felt tensing in her shoulders would have been easier to bear, had the desire in her not been even quicker to answer, nearly as fervent as the first day she had met him.

She blushed hotly at the memory of his voice almost on her lips and pressed her thighs together. Without a word, she turned on her heel and started back home at a clipping pace.

 _Andraste’s holy underthings_ , she thought, _what have I gotten myself into?_

At least she would gain a new appreciation for religious figures.


	9. Part Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Posted to FF.net and the DA kink meme on 5/31/2014. Transferred here on 5/5/2015.

Marian’s first reading lesson with Fenris couldn’t seem to come fast enough.

The dinner with the Rutledges passed uneventfully, though rather awkwardly. They apparently had it in mind to match her up with their eldest son, who even then was a good six years younger than herself. Several times they’d “accidentally” left the two of them alone, but at the very least fate was merciful enough to have the boy show the same amount of interest she had in the entire affair. Each time he sighed and shrugged, and they leaned back in their chairs as they patiently waited for their return.

Really. _Parents_.

The next day, however, proved somehow even more of a torment. Between the minutes spent anxiously looking out the window at the sun’s position and the chantry’s bells tolling the slow hours away, her mind was wholly taken in the task set out before her.

Where did she even begin? How much did Fenris already know? The man could be terribly tight-lipped about his needs, and she didn’t want to discourage him from an already-difficult undertaking.

 _Best start from the bottom and work our way up_ , she thought. She tried to remember the candlelit evenings she had spent by her father’s side teaching Carver and Bethany to read so many years ago. Tears pricked at her eyes at the fond recollection. She rubbed them away with the heel of her palm. _Focus_ , she told herself. _Now’s not the time to get caught up in memories._

The cabinet in the study creaked as she pulled out several sheets of paper from within. At the desk, she wrote up the alphabet, a list of common words, and Fenris’ name. First the reading, she thought, and then later they could focus on writing.

She spent the rest of the day pacing back and forth in the estate, one moment glancing at the sun for the umpteenth time, then the next checking her writing, and glancing back to repeat all over again.

Ser Barkley grew bored of her after an hour and trotted off to enjoy a nap in her bedroom. Her mother seemed to understand without asking, and after a light lunch, she left on the excuse of “catching up with some friends” for the afternoon. Marian was glad when Bodahn similarly ceased trying to placate her with offers of hot tea and biscuits. She appreciated the thought, truly, but she knew she had a history of only making things worse when she tried to get her mind off of them.

Then, at last, Marian heard the chantry bells toll to mark the hour – one, _two_ …

A knock came at the door.

She raced down the steps, but even then Bodahn was faster to answer the door. “Ah, Messere Fenris!” the manservant warmly cried. “What brings you here this fine day?”

“I have some business to discuss with Hawke,” Fenris’ deep voice murmured in reply.

 _“Business”?_ Marian thought, stumbling to a halt in confusion. But only for a moment. _Ohh. He probably doesn’t want others knowing about this._ Her chest stung a little at the realization, but all the same she understood the desire for secrecy. As an apostate, discretion was practically her middle name.

Well, sort of. She usually gave it a half-hearted effort, anyway.

But for Fenris? If he wished it, her lips were sealed.

She picked up her pace again, and in a moment she reached the entry. Fenris already stood several paces inside, his posture stiff and fingers tugging at the straps of his gauntlets. The elf wore his usual clothing and accoutrements, including the greatsword strapped to his side, though she noticed his chestplate was missing. _A little wary_ , she guessed, _but open enough to go without full armor._ She hoped it was a good sign.

Bodahn shut the door behind him. Fenris’ ears twitched at the sound of the latch clicking into place, but he did not look back.

“Hello, Fenris!” she called, striding up to the pair. “Right on time.”

Fenris nodded in return, a faint smile on his lips. “Thank you for having me over, Hawke.”

“You’re welcome here anytime, Fenris,” she replied, warming inside when she saw his smile broaden slightly. She looked over to the dwarf after he turned back to face her. “Thank you, Bodahn. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

Bodahn smiled but shook his head. “My thanks, but-”

“Isn’t there a fair going on in the Hightown square today? I’m sure Sandal would enjoy that,” she added. “My treat.”

At that, Bodahn’s brow rose in shock. “Oh, really, I couldn’t-”

“No, I’ll cover. It’s no trouble,” she went on, pulling out the small bag of coin she kept in her pocket for short trips out. She handed it to the manservant. “Really, it _is_ a fine day, and not much will be going on here at the estate anyway.”

Bodahn hesitated again, but finally he nodded with a grateful smile and, after thanking her profusely, rushed off to gather Sandal.

Leaving Fenris and her alone.

Fenris seemed to relax slightly, his shoulders loosening and the small furrow in his brow easing.

“Are you certain you do not mind, Hawke?” he asked. Though his eyes were as caged as ever, a thread of worry wavered in his low voice.

Marian smiled encouragingly. “It’s fine, Fenris,” she said. “Please, come in. I’ve already set up some materials in the study.”

The elf raised a brow at her, as if to ask what in particular, but she only smiled again. Even so, he followed without question when she turned to lead the way deeper into the estate.

With the curtains drawn open, the sun shone in wide, warm streaks across the main hall and adjoining corridors, while the high ceilings kept the rooms pleasantly cool. Where the sunlight lingered on the woodwork, the smells of linseed oil and beeswax gently emanated into the air. It lent the manor a comfortable, almost cozy atmosphere, one which Marian hoped would help put Fenris further at ease.

It wasn’t a long walk to the study. The room was but the first turn on the left and a quick stroll up a set of stairs. Not enough to even wind Bodahn on a bad day. Still, Marian swore she could feel her temperature rising as they climbed the steps.

She rubbed a hand against her neck and was surprised by the heat she felt there. Was she blushing?

She _did_ blush for sure, however, when she turned at the landing to find Fenris looking a fair bit further south than was strictly polite.

He snapped his eyes back to hers. For a second he seemed on the cusp of something more, his hands clenching at his sides, his eyes dark rings of gold and green. But then he glanced to the side and cleared his throat into a fist.

“So, ah… These… materials you mentioned?” he said.

She looked away as well, both to hide the flustered blush on her face and her disappointment. Instead she simply nodded to the desk on the far wall. “Yes, I just set them over there,” she replied. “I wrote up an alphabet, as well as some words. I thought we could start off by seeing what you do recognize and then work our way from there?”

She turned her gaze back to the elf to find him frowning, though more in thought than any real disconcertment.

“I am not sure there will be much to see,” he said at length. “As I told you, Hawke, I’ve never learned.” Still, he strode over to the desk and, after setting aside his gauntlets and sword, bent down to study the papers on top.

Which in turn gave _her_ the perfect view of his rear end.

 _Well, this is turning into a habit_ , she thought as her eyes drifted downward, almost of their own accord. Maker, did he pour himself into those leggings every morning?

Another cough from the elf startled her out of her thoughts. She dragged her eyes up and flushed again when she found him looking back at her, a brow arched and his lips twitching in what she swore was a damnably smug smirk.

Then she wondered: Had he just done that _on purpose_?

“You wished to see what I know?” he prompted, raising both of his eyebrows at her.

Marian nearly started again, at first from the fact that his voice had dropped to that wickedly seductive octave again and then, as her mind processed the words, the double-meaning of what he’d said. Having hung around Isabela longer than ten minutes, the innuendo was painfully obvious. But this was Fenris, for Andraste’s sake! The elf _never_ made innuendo.

Or… did he?

 _Reading lessons_ , she reminded herself with a mental kick. “I… Er, yes,” she replied, walking over to stand next to him. She reached over and tapped a finger against the list of words. “Do you recognize any of these?”

He turned to the paper and narrowed his eyes at the writing. He frowned slightly as he ran his thumb down the list, pausing on each word as he considered them. Marian silently waited, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Even in profile, he was handsome beyond what few words she could manage. The sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, the plushness of his lips, the striking green of his eyes. This close she could discern the flecks of gold in his irises, like that of polished jade stones. She wondered how warm his cheek would feel cupped in her palm or how his throat would vibrate with a chuckled moan as she ran her fingers down it.

“… this one, Hawke?”

She reddened and dragged her eyes back up to his. He was looking at her keenly, his lips curling in a smile. “Oh! Um, sorry, what was that?” she stammered.

He chuckled. “I was asking if this one is my name,” he replied, tapping a finger against a word on the list.

Marian looked down, a little relieved to break the eye contact. Though amused, his gaze was dark and intent, and for a moment she had nearly felt herself falling in. Or perhaps closer, as she realized they were standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. Her face grew hotter.

Instead she focused on the writing he had pointed out. “Y-Yes, it is,” she said, smiling as she glanced back at him. “Do you recognize the letters?”

But to this he frowned. He looked down again and slowly traced the lines of ink, though not in any sense she could make out. His lips thinned, pressing together as he tapped his fingertip against the _s_.

At last he said, “I know the general shape, but… not the letters, no.”

“Then let’s start here,” she replied. She reached over and followed the lines of the first letter with her own fingertip. “This is _f_.”

But before she could pull away to let him repeat the motion, he placed his hand over hers.

She barely resisted jerking away in surprise. His palm was warm and dry against the back of her hand, the lines of lyrium tingling faintly against her skin. It was also slightly longer than hers, as were his fingers, which left his fingertip extending a bit beyond the end of her own. She had touched him before during the few occasions he’d needed healing after a fight, but never so firmly and never _back_.

Or at least not since the time she’d gotten caught watching the manor years ago.

By the way his hand lightly squeezed around hers for a long moment, as if taking in the texture and heat of her own skin, she assumed that instance was mostly forgiven.

He retraced the path she had made, gently pushing her hand along with his. After he’d finished, he said, “F.”

“Yes, that’s it,” she brightly said. “On to the next, then?” Several seconds passed in silence as she waited for him to remove his hand, but he only looked at her, his brows raised expectantly. At a loss, she tried moving her hand anyway and calmed when she found she could push and pull it with little difficulty. _Maybe it’s so he can control the pace_ , she thought. _Or…_ No, she let the rest drop. She outlined the next letter. “This is _e_.”

He repeated the motion. “E.”

The next one came a little less awkwardly. “And here is _n_.”

“N.”

“And _r_.”

“R.”

Was it just her imagination, or had he shifted a little closer? The sound of his voice had seemed nearer, almost reverberating in her ear in a low rumble. She struggled to regain her place. “And this is _i_ - _i_ ,” she said, her breath hitching on the last syllable as his thumb brushed across the side of her hand.

“I-I?” he repeated, his tone light in question and a hint of mirth. That time she didn’t need to look at his face to see the smirk undoubtedly on it.

Marian flushed. Maker’s breath, she wasn’t fourteen years old! “I meant _i_ ,” she said, a little shakily.

“I, then.”

The last letter felt like a tortuous eternity. Her hand, trapped under his own, was now hot and oversensitive to every movement, from the shifting of his palm to the way he twisted his wrist just so as he followed her. Her arm, too, felt too hot, too close, his shoulder pressing into hers, the scents of warm leather, sword oil, and something uniquely him filling her awareness. Like sultry nights of red wine and silk, she thought.

A breath rolled across her collarbone, curling down her shirt to sweep the tops of her breasts, and she barely suppressed a shiver. That was when she realized he _had_ moved closer, that he was nearly leaning into her, their sides so close his chest brushed hers with each inhalation.

Marian fought to focus on the writing on the desk. With a trembling fingertip, she completed the winding path of the last letter.

“Th-This is _s_ ,” she said.

Fenris retraced the motion with a meandering slowness. When his fingertip at last reached the end of the ink, he smiled – not the polite smiles he offered her in greeting or the wry grins he gave when she tried to make a joke, but something full and unrestrained. It bloomed across his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes and warming his entire demeanor with the expression.

“S,” he said, and his voice, too, sounded heartfelt and whole, caught halfway between awe and genuine happiness in that single syllable. Like a deep sigh after coming home from a years-long journey, or rather perhaps after finding the first real one he’d ever had.

That was when Marian realized. After years of worrying about him, prodding him out of the manor, the nights spent drinking and playing cards at the Hanged Man, the quieter afternoons at his mansion of easy banter and unspoken hints of more, and trying damn near everything under the sun just to see him smile, it wasn’t simply his voice, his looks, or that he insisted on wearing skintight leather armor no matter the weather.

She loved him.

 _Well, fuck_ , she thought. That certainly complicated a few things.

He turned to look at her, the gentle smile still on his face. He didn’t lift his hand. “Hawke,” he said, his tone deep and sincere, “thank you for this.”

She swallowed thickly. “A-Anytime, Fenris. I’m glad I could help.”

His lips arched at the corners, widening into his more familiar smirk. Except there was something more in it now than just amusement at her antics, something that made her toes curl in her shoes and her heart hammer in her chest. He murmured lowly, “I wonder-”

“Messere Hawke, Sandal and I are leaving now! We should be back in time for supper!” Bodahn’s voice rang out from the main hall. “Have a good afternoon with Messere Fenris!”

Marian and Fenris stared at each other with wide eyes, the moment broken.

Slowly, she stepped back, her hand slipping out from under his with surprising ease. Fenris didn’t move, his gaze still upon her, as though caught in that fading exchange. Or perhaps only awkwardness. She turned and shouted down the stairway, “Thank you, Bodahn! You two have a lovely time as well!”

The front door clicked shut. After a long second of hesitation – expecting studious neutrality, his thoughts locked behind his eyes, cold and caged once more – she looked back.

He was smiling.

Well, perhaps not as most people did. But the corners of his lips curled, broadening into something – while small and easy to overlook – that was warm and reached his eyes. Just a sliver of what he had shown but moments ago, at the height of that final letter, but it was there, and the fact that it still remained – and that he was not afraid to let her see it – loosened the tension in her shoulders.

She asked, “Are you all right?” After what – the interruption, reading his name, that strange moment? She wasn’t sure herself.

“It was… unexpected,” he said. His smile widened into something approaching a grin. “But I _am_ enjoying the lesson so far. Shall we continue?”

Her cheeks grew hot again at his evident amusement and the deepening honey-rasp of his voice. It occurred to her for a brief moment – a very brief, breath-catching moment – just how many more lessons such as this might come. How many more days spent so close – perhaps too close – guiding and encouraging him; how many times seeing him smile at a new discovery; how many hours listening to his rumbling, velvet voice. Yet again, she wondered exactly what she had gotten herself into.

“R-Right,” she replied at last, mentally shaking herself out of her reverie. She looked back down at the papers, searching for a moment before finding his name again and tapping it with a fingertip. “Now,” she said, “think you can pick out the letters on your own?”

He turned to study the writing once more, an eyebrow quirked. Again he set his hand upon the desk, and while this time it did not cover her own, it rested close enough to touch.

“Hmm,” he rumbled, a lingering warmth in his throat. “Perhaps you had best say them again, Hawke.”


	10. Part Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Posted to FF.net and the DA kink meme on 8/8/2014. Transferred here on 5/5/2015.

The next several months went as swimmingly as a fish in a sea.

Well, aside from the thugs and bandits with an inflated sense of their own skills, some Chantry folk who preferred making trouble over giving sermons, the rising tensions with the Qunari, and all of the various beasts, abominations, and other nasties which Marian Hawke had come to dub “the monster of the week.” There was also her ever-growing tab at the Hanged Man; that was practically a monster in and of itself.

So, perhaps more like a fish in a stormy, shipwreck-strewn sea with lots of sharks and unpleasant pointy bits.

But even in a storm, there were calms.

When Fenris came for his lessons, such troubles seemed to slip away. They met in the afternoons, at first only once or twice a week, but soon enough nearly every other day. Together in the Amell estate’s study, reclining on the divan as Fenris recited from papers, the sunlight all soft and warm. Or, on occasion, at Fenris’ mansion in the dusty library, sitting in thickly-padded chairs with books in hand, the air cool and calm. The crinkle of sheets between fingers, the whisper of a book’s pages, their voices soft as they read. It was difficult to think of anything else in those hours.

Especially with Fenris’ voice murmuring its low, husky notes into the air. Maker, she had a hard enough time just paying attention to what he was _saying_.

After the initial awkwardness faded, Fenris fast grew absorbed in the lessons. Green eyes narrowed, he’d stare at the pages pressed between his fingers, taking in every letter with a deliberation that only matched his focus in battle. He’d sound out the syllables, growling them low in his throat, rolling them around his teeth, whispering them between his lips. Then, finally, as recognition dawned, he’d smile a little, a piece of familiarity found and a stretch of new ground revealed.

They began with the basics. Following the success of his name, she showed him the letters of several common words before moving on to the entire alphabet. Before long, he could quickly name letters drawn from a deck of cards at random.

Combining the letters turned out to be more of a struggle, though. She soon lost count of the skeptical looks he shot her when she tried to explain that, yes, _leak_ and _leek_ really were spoken the same and, no, the _k_ in _knock_ was silent. Several times he’d seemed on the verge of storming out, his hands white-knuckled around a book, but after a minute he’d sigh and ask her to explain again.

In spite of all those hurdles, it hardly seemed like any time at all before they started his first real book – the one she’d given him, _A Slave’s Life_.

There’d been practice books beforehand, of course. Well-kept tomes with cleanly-written lettering that she had persuaded out of a Chantry librarian with Sebastian’s help. The brother, to her pleasant surprise, had a way with compliments that could leave a Qunari blushing. And for catching and keeping secrets, if the quiet way his eyes warmed as he pressed his forefinger to his smiling lips when she left were anything to tell by.

Which worried her a little, honestly. She hadn’t mentioned Fenris at all, only said what sorts of books she was looking for. She couldn’t help wondering who else had noticed the elf’s frequent visits as well as her own. Her mother, for once, left her well enough alone, as did Bodahn and Sandal, and Ser Barkley only interrupted for a quick ear-rub on occasion. No one else had even remarked on the meetings. For their own sakes, she hoped Isabela and Varric weren’t secretly using them as “inspiration” for their stories.

But when Fenris finally picked up the worn volume she’d given him, opened it to the first page, and narrowed his eyes at the cramped, slanted writing, her worries again fell away as her breath caught in anticipation.

“It was… my dream for the p-people,” he began haltingly, his voice low and focused, “to have a home of th-their own, wh-where we would have no m-masters but our-ourselves.” He paused for a moment, looking to her, and she nodded for him to go on. “The ene-enemy of my enemy is my friend, and thus we… followed… Andraste ag-against the… Imperium.”

Again he glanced up at her, and she smiled encouragingly. His head dipped back down to continue. The rest of their meeting went on in a similar fashion. He’d read a short excerpt before looking to her for approval or correction, she’d nod or point out a mistake, and then he’d read another and repeat. His pace was halting and slow, his timbre rough and uncertain around the words, but she was pleasantly surprised to find she rarely had to interrupt to correct him. Even if he’d doubted his ability at first, his intelligence and perseverance were proving him otherwise.

It wasn’t long before he was moving on to other books – and indeed nearly devouring them. Histories, sciences, travelogues, Chantry canticles, even a few adventure novels. When their lessons became too slow for his liking, he began borrowing volumes from her to read in private. Soon enough he visited on a near-daily basis simply to refresh his collection or reflect with her on his latest read.

They often took breaks between the reading and writing, both to ease the strain of such tasks and to quench the dryness of their throats. They talked during those periods, oftentimes chatting amiably over some minor event or on occasion trading small stories of their pasts. Fenris talked of his journey to Kirkwall, of the time a kind blacksmith had fixed a strap on his chestplate for free or the night a family with a mischievous toddler had taken him in. He rarely spoke of Tevinter, except in some explanation of its customs or railing against its abuses, but even in that little Marian could tell his memories of it were far from pleasant.

Then, one dry autumn afternoon, he confessed he couldn’t remember anything before the lyrium brands. Nothing of his childhood, his family, maybe even a time he had been free before Tevinter.

Marian tried to make it up to him with stories of her time in Lothering. It wasn’t much, especially in comparison to his own loss, and Maker knew the most exciting event in her childhood was the time she’d managed to catapult herself twenty feet off of a windmill. But he always listened intently, his eyes fluttering closed and a smile tugging at his lips as he tried to imagine, and when he spoke, it was only ever to ask for more. A hot summer day spent fishing along the river with her father, the dragonflies buzzing in the air. The tastes of autumn, of fruit fresh from the harvest, of sweet cider and apple pie, of the crisp, cold air in her lungs.

She avoided any mention of the times she’d slipped into the chantry to “pester” Ser Bryant, however. That was one story she thought everyone – and especially Isabela – could do without.

Fenris didn’t seem to notice, though. He’d asked her once, a casual, nearly offhanded question if she still held anyone from Lothering _close_. She’d replied with a vague shrug of her shoulders and a mumbled “no,” and he’d nodded and returned to reading. He never inquired further.

She wondered at that at times, but it felt almost too much to hope for. And with her heart a staccato beat of more, _more_ in her chest, such hope swelled tight and painful against her ribs.

Instead she concentrated even more on the lessons, of reading and writing and watching Fenris’ confidence slowly bloom, till she could think of little else.

It wasn’t just books she asked Fenris to read, though, but also everyday objects – street signs, restaurant menus, the lettering in a piece of embroidery. It was with those he seemed most pleased, his eyes lighting up as if seeing for the first time a grand secret stretched out before him.

Initially she only prompted him in private outings – walking back from the Hanged Man together or the times he caught her alone out on some small errand. A quiet whisper and a subtle gesture – or at least more subtle than the night she’d met him, she hoped – to the item in question, and he’d take a moment to study it before whispering back. Then they’d smile a little, a success shared between just the two of them.

His desire for secrecy always lingered at the back of her mind. As much as she would have liked to celebrate his progress with everyone, she understood his hesitation. Anders might very well mock him for it, Isabela would tease him, and Merrill, as kind-hearted as she tried to be, would make some naïve comment that would put the previous two’s efforts to shame. Sebastian already seemed very supportive, and Varric certainly was never one to discourage a love for reading, but she couldn’t assume Fenris wanted even them to know.

And so it would remain a secret indefinitely.

Or at least so she thought, until one day while she was walking through Lowtown with Fenris, Varric, and Isabela on a job, he leaned in close and whispered, “Trinkets Emporium.”

She shivered as his warm breath ghosted across her skin. “What?” she said.

He nodded ever so slightly to a shop on their left. “Trinkets Emporium,” he murmured again, a rumbling purr at the back of his throat.

She resisted the urge to rub her ear. Maker, that should _not_ have sounded so sexy. A quick glance at the store sign proved him right, and she replied, “Y-Yes, that’s it.”

His lips broadened into a smile. Then, just as Isabela looked back at them, it was gone, his expression once more its usual frown as he pulled away.

Isabela arched an eyebrow at them. “What are you two whispering about back there?” she asked.

Marian glanced at Fenris for some sign of what to say, but he only stared impassively ahead. “Errr, nothing,” she said.

Varric snorted. “Sure, _nothing_.”

But they mercifully dropped the subject, and Marian thought that was that.

And, again, she was wrong.

The next evening, they sat playing cards at the Hanged Man, chatting over idle plans for the future. Which weren’t too likely to happen for anyone but Varric and Isabela, if the small mountains of coin the two had hoarded on their ends of the table and the dearth of everyone else were anything to tell by.

They didn’t _always_ win. There was the rare occasion Merrill, Sebastian, or even Anders happily walked out the door with a nicely-sized bag of money in hand. To be honest, though, even then Marian had to wonder if the two rogues only allowed it so no one could claim foul play without a doubt.

But, to be even more honest, she didn’t really come for the money anymore. She simply enjoyed the company of those she’d practically come to call her second family.

Which was just as well, because the way Fenris had gotten into the routine of sitting next to her and brushing against her what felt like every other minute, she wasn’t winning much. Or at all, rather. Every time they passed cards, his fingertips would graze her own, lingering for just a moment longer than was strictly needed. And when she fumbled and dropped the cards he had given her – which was quite often, as she never seemed to grow used to the sudden feel of his skin against hers – he bent down to pick them up, pressed them back into her hands, and, with that curling grin of his, warned her in his deep, gravelly voice that she should hold onto them more _firmly_.

Tonight, however, seemed the worst of the lot by far. Fenris apparently had taken it in mind to point out to her every scrap of text he came across. The sign out in front, the decorations on the walls, even the bloody playing cards.

“Crown Press,” he murmured into her ear – the name of the printing company on the back.

“Wycome Brown Ale,” he mumbled a minute later, nodding to the bottle in his hand.

“The Plunderer’s Passion,” he whispered, with a pointed glance at a model ship mounted on the wall.

Marian blushed – well, more so – at the way he’d spoken the last word, rolling the syllables like honey on his tongue. She shivered, and her eyes darted up to confirm the name, but that was as far as she got.

Anders slapped his cards down on the table with a scowl. “If you two don’t stop that, I’m _leaving_ ,” he hissed. “I’ve been missing enough time at the clinic anyway.”

Varric held a soothing hand out to the mage. “Hey now, take it easy, Blondie. They’re just having a friendly chat, that’s all.” At Anders’ skeptical frown, he added, “Besides which, I think I hear the coins calling your name tonight. That’d certainly help with the supplies, wouldn’t it?”

Anders huffed but, after a moment, eased back into his chair to nurse his drink.

Only to sputter when Isabela sighed, “I wish someone would whisper dirty things into _my_ ear while playing cards.”

“Oh! Oh!” Merrill cried, waving an arm. “Can I try? I’d like to try!” Then, before the pirate could answer, she leaned over and murmured something to her.

Isabela grimaced. “Not that kind of dirty, Kitten.”

Marian let them go on with their chatter, hoping it’d carry them further away from that caught moment. She was mostly right, as near everyone grew absorbed in finding out exactly _what_ Merrill had whispered to Isabela. Well, save for Fenris, who sat silently beside her, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, and Sebastian across the table, an eyebrow slowly rising and an amused smile on his face.

From there, it only got worse.

Subtly, at first, small whispers and half-sighed breaths as they walked to and from jobs around the city. Merrill would giggle, Isabela smirked, Anders grimaced, and Sebastian would only glance back at them with those warm eyes that made her flush and scowl because _how much did the damn brother know already_. Then Fenris grew more daring – a low murmur during talks with a contact, whispering into her ear just as she was about to read a found slip of paper aloud, crooning against the nape of her neck when she tried to light a campfire with a spell and nearly burnt Anders’ eyebrows off instead.

She knew she probably deserved such embarrassment, at least a little. After being such an infatuated pest about the elf, it was a smidgen of justice for all she’d done.

Still, she couldn’t help feeling a little aggravated by it all.

He must have known what impression he gave. After all of the innuendo and half-flirtations, he _had_ to know, and yet… He did nothing. He’d grin, a quiet chuckle in his throat, his gold-green eyes darkening slightly so as he glanced at her, but then, just as quickly as the teasing moment had surfaced, he’d pull back and away into his usual still silence.

Until the next time. And the next. And the _next_.

She sighed.

No matter how amusing he found it or how deep her affections for the dour elf ran, this had to stop. She had to set some boundaries, before she completed her transformation into a doormat and just started lying face-down in his entryway.

At the very least, it’d mean fewer scuff marks to clean from her clothes.

Marian walked toward Fenris’ manor for their regular meeting, the autumn wind a blustering chill against her exposed face and neck. Winter was creeping in with each passing day, and though it rarely snowed in Kirkwall – so different from her memories of Lothering – the breeze from the sea always turned hard and cold with the approach of Firstfall. She shivered and slid into one of the many alcoves of Hightown’s streets to wait for the gale to pass.

Uncertainty gripped her hard. Could she really do this? She had faced countless bandits, thugs, and even demons, but confronting _this_ – whatever they had – was another matter entirely.

The wind was biting; she could run back home to change clothes and buy herself more time to think, to plan out what she’d say, or even plead to cancel for the day. They had missed sessions in the past, mostly from exhaustion after a long job or a simple conflict of schedule. It’d be nothing new, and poor weather was hardly the worst excuse she could use.

Marian let out a heavy sigh.

 _No_ , she thought, squaring her shoulders as she stepped out from the alcove. Fenris was her friend, and he deserved her honesty. And if he was indeed her friend in return, he would understand.

She strode the last block and up the stairs to the mansion with a renewed purpose. She paused on the threshold and took a deep, steadying breath. Then she knocked on the door and called, “Fenris?”

She waited a moment, reciting the words she had planned in her head.

When no answer came, she listened and, finding silence, knocked more firmly. To her surprise, the door creaked open a handbreadth – not to Fenris, as she had expected – but into a dark, empty foyer.


	11. Part Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Posted to FF.net and the DA kink meme on 9/11/2014. Transferred here on 5/5/2015.

Marian stared hard at the door for a long moment, biting her lower lip in thought.

It was true Fenris was expecting her, but even then she knew he always answered the door. The fact that it was unlocked – no, not even fully shut – struck her as worrisome.

She held her breath and listened harder. But the mansion was quiet, with hardly even the whisper of a mouse scurrying through the walls. She eased the door further open, wincing as the hinges creaked, and peered inside. It took her eyes several moments to adjust to the dark interior. For a second she wondered if an illumination spell would have served better, but then she realized it would have given her away.

She squashed the thought before it could go further. There was no sign of a break-in – well, more so than the usual broken windows – and there’d been no news of Danarius or his hirelings for years. Besides, Fenris surely would have alerted her if he suspected. Right?

At last, her eyesight grew accustomed to the darkness, and she breathed a sigh of relief at what she saw. No newly-smashed chairs, scorched walls, or blood spilled across the floor. Unless attackers had taken Fenris entirely by surprise – which she doubted, given his cautious nature – everything looked as it should.

Which, well, was a mess, but a familiar one.

“Fenris?” she called into the mansion. She waited for a moment, straining to catch some murmured reply or the slap of his feet on the dusty floor. But nothing came. She called again, “Fenris?”

Still, nothing.

She hesitated at the door. After all of her prior screw-ups, she disliked entering without his permission, but she couldn’t believe he had forgotten their lesson. Perhaps something had come up and he’d stepped out for a short while. Or maybe he’d fallen asleep waiting for her, slumped upright in an armchair, his eyelashes fluttering softly against his cheeks as his chest slowly rose and fell with quiet sighs.

She smiled fondly at the image. Surely it couldn’t hurt to check. Even if he wasn’t around, she could find a seat to wait in. Much more comfortable than standing around, at any rate.

That settled, she tentatively stepped into the manor. Around her everything seemed much the same: the same dilapidated walls, the same fallen paintings, the same corpses (thankfully skeletal at this point, rather than rotting flesh). Even the dust prints were the same. She could make out Fenris’ bare feet trailing up the stairs in a neat line, as well as the old footprints of her shoes and then what were likely Isabela’s and Sebastian’s. No sign of any large groups or unusual marks. She let out a sigh of relief.

“Fenris?” she called out once more. “Are you here?”

Again, only silence answered her.

She edged across the main hall and up the stairway, glancing every which way, but the manor seemed empty save for her. The old fear – buried and almost forgotten after so many years – that he’d left for good flickered across her mind, and she hesitated at the landing.

She would check, and if she found nothing, she would wait. And if he never came…

She swallowed and shoved the thought away.

She turned and took a step toward the library, but then stopped as her eyes caught on the door to the master bedroom – Fenris’ private quarters. Ever since that one drunken night, the door had remained closed whenever she came to visit. She’d wondered periodically what he kept hidden in there, but she’d never mustered up the bravery to ask, nor was there any really good way to do so. After all, “What are you hiding in your bedroom?” sounded about on par with Isabela asking what color underthings he wore.

The door now, however, was open.

“Err, Fenris?” she called again, softer this time.

When she received no answer, she crept towards the room. She swore to herself she would only look to see if he was asleep in the bed or a chair, nothing more. If he wasn’t there, she would go wait in the library or sit on the stairs, and she most definitely would _not_ rifle through his things-

Fenris was not asleep on the bed, nor was he in a chair. The room was empty.

No, not empty. It was full. _Very_ full.

Several stacks of books overtook the small table in the center, and the chairs she remembered once in the middle of the room had been shoved over to the wall to make room for more volumes on the floor, piled high enough to reach her waist. At some point Fenris had also pulled in an empty set of shelves, and he’d loaded every last one with inkwells, quills new and thoroughly-used, heaps of crumpled paper, sheets scratched with ink, blotting paper, and even a few worn notebooks. For all the bare openness the room had once held, the new furniture, books, and materials now dominated the space.

But despite its fullness, it was also neat. She could see touches of order in the chaos: the books tidily stacked, the papers precisely aligned, and the inks carefully gathered. The floor looked recently swept as well, at least in what little space she could make out. Even the bed sheets appeared the same as she’d last seen them, as though Fenris had never touched them.

But then, there – she caught a few disturbances. Pale remnants littered the fireplace – burned papers, perhaps, she thought – and several stains marked the floor. Not quite like old blood – she knew what those looked like, from the main hall and plenty of other places in Kirkwall – but still a faint burgundy in color. Wine, then? Fenris occasionally brought up bottles from the cellar, but beyond the time he’d thrown one at a wall on the spur of the moment, she’d never seen him leave such a mess in his personal space.

She worried at her bottom lip and nudged the nearest stain with her boot. But it was dry and aged, and aside from the color, it felt the same as the rest of the floor, not even a little tackiness.

“Hm. I suppose I should have put down a rug.”

Marian yelped and whirled about to find herself face-to-face with a familiar elf:

“Fenris!”

That surprise sent her jumping back several more feet into the room until her heels hit a stack of books. Her arms pinwheeled for a tense second, but then Fenris was there, his un-gauntleted hands gripping her sides as he guided her forward and back to steadiness. She let out a relieved huff of breath as her feet came to rest flat on the floor once more, and she smiled gratefully.

When his hands dropped away, she nearly sighed in disappointment. Her eyes lingered on his long, sword-roughened fingers as he stepped back a short distance.

Then he cleared his throat, and she remembered with a flush exactly _what_ she had been caught doing.

Which wasn’t helped any when she looked up to find an amused, toe-curling smirk tugging at the corners of his lips and a black eyebrow arched high. One of her favorite expressions of his, if she were to be honest; right up there with the ones she had only ever fantasized about. A bolt of heat shot through her at the sight. She swallowed thickly, her fingers fidgeting with her coat.

“I, uh… Hello, Fenris,” she said with a weak smile. “I swear I wasn’t looking through your stuff! I just… _glanced_ , maybe. A bit. Or a lot. Or I guess I’m standing in the bloody room now, so-”

A low, husky chuckle stopped her. “It’s all right, Hawke.”

She relaxed, though only just, and the way his voice hit all the right places in her ear simply confused the matter further. “You… You aren’t angry with me?”

Another soft breath of laughter. “No.”

She pressed her thighs together tightly at the sound and forced herself to breathe evenly. “R-Right,” she said. Her mind wavered, caught between staying for their usual meeting and pretending nothing had happened or running like she’d stolen lyrium from the Carta. Her eyes caught on the piles of paper and books again, and before she could check herself, she said, “Well, it certainly looks like you’ve been busy.”

He gave the room a short glance before settling his gaze on her once more. “Yes. Your lessons roused in me quite the curiosity.”

 _To put it lightly_ , she thought. But he seemed content enough, his shoulders relaxed and his posture loose, and slowly she felt her heartbeat begin to slow. She looked at the nearby stack of books again, reaching out to finger the cover of the topmost volume: _A Brief History of Ferelden_. “Of the world?” she said.

“And of other things,” he replied at length.

She flipped open the book to one of the first pages and caught a passage briefly describing the Alamarri peoples. She closed it after a moment of study and gently pushed it aside to see the volume underneath – _An Account of the Holdings of the South Reach_ – and then again to see another, and another. She couldn’t recall loaning him even half of the books she now saw.

“Maker, Fenris, I knew you were reading a lot,” she whispered in awe, “but this is amazing.”

“I am glad you approve,” he said.

His voice sounded closer, a low hum just a few steps away. But he still didn’t seem bothered, so she kept digging, curious as to what topic intrigued him the most. Many were books of history and travel, but here and there she spotted one of the sciences, a dictionary, even a novel. Then her fingers glided over the brown leather of a thin volume and turned it to the first page, and she blushed.

“W-Well,” she said, a half-embarrassed laugh in her throat as she shut the erotic novel, “I can see you got some recommendations from Isabela.”

He chuckled, a deep, pleasant rumble that rolled across her shoulders. She shuddered at his nearness. When she turned, she barely held back a small jolt when she found him but a foot behind her. Maker, when had he come so close? She hadn’t heard so much as a whisper of a footstep. Then again, she’d been rather distracted until a moment ago.

The way he was looking at her now – his mossy-green eyes heavy and dark – distracted her for an entirely different set of reasons.

“As I said, Hawke,” Fenris murmured, “your lessons roused in me _quite_ the curiosity.”

Her heart took that as a cue to pick right back up from after he’d surprised her, and then some. She swallowed again. It was too much, she felt; the teasing, the whispers, the half-flirtations that never quite went anywhere. She recalled her plan to speak with him honestly, to settle things at last – or at least enough that she wasn’t at risk of setting Anders’ hair on fire on a regular basis.

She took a deep breath, but it didn’t help as much as she’d hoped. “Fenris,” she said, “are you suggesting what I think you are, or…?”

His eyes ducked down for a second before meeting hers once more, a sudden, nervous gesture. And then she realized he _was_ nervous, his shoulders stiffening and the set of his jaw growing tight. “We have known each other for some time now,” he began, slowly, as if the words themselves were hesitant to come out. “I confess, more and more I find myself wondering, of thinking… Do you remember that night years ago?”

“That… night?” she said, biting her lower lip.

His eyes caught the movement, darting down to watch it for a short second before he seemed to find himself and met her gaze again. “After I’d played cards at the Hanged Man for the first time,” he said. “You… came to me, and the way you _looked_ at me-” He turned away with a frustrated snarl and paced along the narrow strip of open floor between the door and table. “I knew it was wrong of me, that we were both drunk, but…” He shook his head, a scowl twisting his lips. “I fled after Aveline came, but when I saw your stave, I thought of you again, and I couldn’t help but follow.”

Marian’s mind whirled from his admission, and she set at a hand on a bare space on the table to steady herself. “You… So you _were_ the one who returned my staff?”

He nodded sharply. “I wished-” But then he shook his head again. “I left it, and then I fled again. Then I drank even more, thinking I could forget what had happened.” He snorted, part-amused and the rest bitter. “Instead I only gave myself a headache the next morning.”

She glanced down at the floor and its stains again. “So, these…?”

“Yes. I… did not want you to see.” He sighed and finally ceased pacing, glancing at her briefly before turning away once more, his back hunched like a cage. “But I didn’t show you all this to burden you further. I apologize.”

“It’s all right, Fenris,” she replied softly. “I like listening to you talk.”

She mentally kicked herself. _I probably could’ve phrased that better_ , she thought, suppressing a wince.

But then Fenris looked back at her, a grin catching on his lips as he stood straighter, his shoulders square and sure. “You do, don’t you?” he said, his voice dropping to that Maker-damned octave that caressed every nerve in her ears. She shivered, and his grin widened. He stepped closer. “And what if I were to tell you there are few pleasures greater than speaking with a beautiful woman?”

She swore she had a reply in mind, really she did. But somewhere between her throat, her lips, and the realization that _he wanted her_ and _why had they waited several Blighted years for this_ , half of it got lost and the rest tangled up beyond repair, and all that came out instead was, “Hnnghhfffsmth.”

She blushed hotly and pressed her hands over her mouth, but Fenris only chuckled. “I’ll take that as a good response,” he said, his eyes glinting gold. Then, just as suddenly as his mirth had come, it dropped away, his expression wholly serious. He hesitated, and his gaze darted away before he wrenched it back. “I will be forthright with you. Tell me if I am wrong, and I shall never speak of it again,” he said. “But I have watched, and it seems as though your interest has not waned since that night. Is that… true?”

Her fingers slipped from her lips in shock, but this time she remembered how to use her jaw and tongue well enough to croak, “Y-Yes.”

Not the most stunning of confessions, but Fenris didn’t seem to mind. His smirk returned, curling the corners of his bow-shaped lips and his eyes narrowing in a smolder that would have had Isabela cheering in delight. She, however, found it difficult enough to simply breathe.

Which became a little more difficult when he growled, “Then perhaps you will like _this_ ,” and, with one smooth stride forward, threw his arms around her and kissed her hard.

His lips felt at once soft and rough, tasting of his skin, heat, and a trace of bitter wine at the edges. He pushed against her eager but unfocused, his mouth sliding hurriedly along hers. But in this she at least had some experience, and against the pounding of her heart, she pressed back, slower, coaxing him into gentleness. After a moment he followed, yielding to her touch, locking his lips against hers, then sucking on her bottom lip after she sucked on his, lightly drawing his tongue along the same expanse after she had done so. Slowly, softly, she kept the pace, letting him adjust to the feeling, to experience it fully.

When she swept her tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, he groaned – a deep, delicious sound – and fisted a hand in her hair to pull her closer.

As much as she’d fantasized about his gauntlets – their sharp weight against her skin – she was glad he didn’t have them then. His chestplate, however, remained on for whatever reason – a final guard against rejection, or perhaps a last restraint – and the ridge of it bumped against her chest uncomfortably. She set her hands on his shoulders, at once to steady herself against the heady rush of _this was finally happening_ and to feel him, to affirm the reality of it, to search for- _There_. She blindly tugged at the fastenings, impatient for more of him.

 _There was something else_ , a thought surfaced in her mind. _Something important._

But the recollection was lost when he nearly tore off her coat and tossed it somewhere to the side. Then he pressed her further back – and since when had they started moving? – and the backs of her knees hit the bed. She fell onto the sheets with a gasp of surprise, and he stood a moment longer to undo the harness of his armor and throw it off. Then he was joining her; cupping her face between his warm palms, pressing deep kisses against her lips, his chest heaving against hers with the most wonderful sounds she’d ever heard on Thedas, pushing a muscled thigh between her trembling legs, and _Maker, how had he fit_ that _in his trousers?_

They broke with a shared moan as he ground his hips against her. He panted heavily, a wild, ragged noise that sent a dizzying thrum of arousal through her veins, his breath hot against her neck and cheek. She kissed him again wherever she could reach – on the brow, on the tip of a pointed ear, the corner of his jaw – before pulling him up by the shoulders to press her mouth firmly against his once more.

By the time they parted again, they were both panting hard. A flush had overtaken Fenris’ face, turning his brown skin darker, and his eyes fared similarly, the green of them nearly lost against the blackness of his pupils, like a summer forest at night. She imagined she looked a comparable state herself.

Fenris gripped the sheets on either side of her, exhaling in a rumbling, honey-thick growl that she felt as much as heard. He looked into her eyes, equal parts lust and depth. So very much like her fantasies, Marian realized, but better, so much _better_ , and for a moment she felt a powerful urge to pinch herself. But real or not she didn’t want to stop it, _couldn’t_ stop it. _Maker’s breath_ , she thought, _I’m_ not _waking up from this._

 _But there was something else_ , again that other thought whispered in her mind.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice that delicious, ash-rough rasp. “Is this what you want, Hawke?”

It was, oddly, the name that stirred the recollection at last. _Hawke_. He always called her that – _always_ had – even though he knew her first name, that she’d even tried to ask him to call her by it. But it was only ever Hawke, her family name, the same as what all of her friends called her, and just her friends.

Just a friend.

“No,” she finally said.

He froze, his eyes widening in uncertainty.

She cupped her palm against his cheek and gently ran her thumb across the swell of it. His brow furrowed at the sudden, strangely intimate touch. “I want more than this,” she whispered.

He remained fixed in place for a second, and then understanding dawned. He frowned, his lips thin and tight, and after another moment he rolled off and away to the space beside her. The abrupt absence of his weight and heated touch struck Marian like a shattered dream, the air now too cold in her lungs. She watched him sit up and settle his hands on his thighs, his shoulders hunched like a worn shield, silent apart from his labored breathing. But that, too, soon slowed. Then he was simply silent.

She lay on the bed for a short time longer, silently cursing up a storm – at herself, at falling in love, at telling him even when she knew she’d do nothing less. Then she sighed and sat up as well.

“I’m sorry,” she quietly said. “That’s not what you wanted, was it? I-”

He held up a hand. “I am not opposed, Hawke. It’s just…” He sighed, and at last his eyes moved, glancing at her briefly before looking away again. “I… I’ve never allowed anyone too close,” he said. He stretched out an arm and gazed at the white lines of lyrium etched across his skin. “When my markings were created, the pain was… extraordinary. The memory lingers.”

Then he turned and looked into her eyes, and her breath caught again at the sight of them. Their darkness had mostly abated, the green once more bright and clear, but there – in the narrowing of his gaze – a spark of desire still burned.

“But you,” he continued, “are unlike any woman I have ever met. With you, it might be different.” He searched her gaze, his brow creased. “Are you sure of this, Hawke?”

She gave a small, soft laugh. “You’re asking the person who regularly gets into trouble for a living,” she replied. “But for what it’s worth, yes, I am sure.”

He smiled a little. “Even though I’m an escaped slave and an elf?”

“And I’m an apostate refugee, remember?”

He chuckled. “You have me there,” he said. His eyes darted away before meeting hers again, widening just slightly into something open and hopeful, a flush of red lingering in his cheeks. “I’ll… need time to consider this. Will you wait for me, Hawke?”

She smiled back. “I’ll wait however long you need.”

They regarded each other for a long moment. Arousal still coursed through her, aching and unmet in her nethers, but as the quiet settled into a warm tenderness despite the chill bite of autumn leaking through the window, she found she hardly noticed. Fenris gazed at her with an openness she’d never seen before, the weight of unspoken words heavy in his green eyes, his white hair still tousled from their earlier passion. She clenched her hands tight into the sheets to resist smoothing it – or ruffling it further.

She smiled, inwardly laughing at the thought of Fenris flustered from her affections. The image that came to mind was appealing; even rather endearing, she felt.

A feeling that turned somewhat awkward when she caught sight of his groin out of the corner of her eye. She looked away with a blush and cleared her throat. He quickly threw a pillow over hips and turned his eyes to the floor.

“So,” she lightly said, “I think I can assume the lesson for today is off. But next time, as usual?”

Fenris nodded. “I look forward to it.”

Marian swallowed thickly and tried to push all that had just happened from her mind. Or at least till she had returned to the privacy of her bedroom. She rose from the bed, patting down her clothes and hair into some semblance of composure. She stood for a few moments longer, uncertain of what to say. “Well, I guess I’ll be going,” she said. She turned back to him. “Will I see you tonight at the Hanged Man for cards?”

A small smile curved his lips. “Of course.”

She returned the expression, and then she looked around in growing bewilderment. “Umm… Do you know where my coat is?”

Fenris searched the room as well, but he wore the same confused frown as her.

She looked around the room again – the floor, the shelves, the books, the table, even the lampposts – but it was nowhere to be seen. Then her eyes alighted on window, the view of the neighboring roof and the strip of pale sky beyond, and she groaned.

“Oh, Maker,” she said. “You threw it outside, didn’t you?”


	12. Part Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Heads-up for more serious topics in the next few parts. Nothing too terribly detailed, though.

“You want me to talk to him?”

The warm rasp of Varric’s voice jerked Marian out of her reverie, the legs of her chair squeaking against the wooden floor with the motion. “Talk?” she replied, her eyes darting to his and then just as quickly away to her cards. She sorted them between her fingers almost desperately. “Talk to who?”

Isabela laughed from across the table. “Oh, don’t even try to give us that,” she said. “You’ve been giving him doe-eyes every time his back is turned for nearly the past two weeks. You’re like an open book with an index and annotated guide.”

“And you missed the past six times Isabela cheated,” Varric added with a tsk. “I thought you’d at least catch the card she slipped into her-”

“Don’t tell her that!” Isabela cried and gave the dwarf a lighthearted shove to the shoulder.

Varric chuckled, and with a shared grin the two looked to Marian in expectation.

But she only sighed. Their smiles slipped away, and instead she concentrated on her cards yet again, trying to make some sense of her hand. But after an hour and at least two handfuls of lost coin, she had to admit she was paying their go of Wicked Grace about as much interest as she usually gave one of Aveline’s lectures on the law. Was a pair of drakes worth anything? Did the sword of roses herald the end of the round? Even though she’d spent an untold number of evenings at the Hanged Man drinking and playing the very game, the answers eluded her right then as completely as the door latches did after a few too many ales.

She sighed again and set her cards on the table. “Maybe I should just go home,” she said.

Isabela offered a sympathetic murmur and put a hand on Marian’s forearm. “Oh, Hawke, sweet thing, I hate seeing you like this. Is there anything I can do?” she asked, her tone soft. A wicked smirk ruined the image a second later. “Short-sheet his bed for a week? Coat the entry in his manor with grease? Steal all of his knickers and hide them around Kirkwall?” She laughed again. “I’d be more than happy to do that last one.”

Varric snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”

But Marian shook her head. “No, no, please, it’s not like that,” she said, shrugging off Isabela’s touch. “It’s just… complicated.” She winced and picked at the corner of a card.

Varric set down his own cards. More gently, he said, “Listen, Hawke, I know things are rough right now. It always hurts when a relationship doesn’t work out as you’d hoped. One time, I-” He hesitated, looking away, then let out a slow breath. “I know, just trust me.” He refocused on her with soft, brown eyes. “Anyway, if you ever want to talk about what happened, I’m all ears.”

“And Bianca’s all bolts,” Isabela added, “if you prefer resolving your break-ups that way.”

Marian started again in her chair. “You think-” She put a hand over her face with a groan. “Oh, Maker.”

They stared at her.

“You mean… you haven’t even gotten _together_ yet?” Isabela asked. She cringed as the realization sunk in. “Just how many years have you gone without by now? You must creak worse than Aveline.”

“It’s not like that!” Marian cried again, then paused. “All right, it is like that. But it’s…”

“Complicated?” Varric finished for her.

She nodded, and they lapsed into a long moment of quiet. Or into their tankards, as Isabela raised hers for a deep draught to awkwardly ward it off.

After her confession almost a fortnight ago, Fenris had fallen back into a distance Marian had hardly seen since the night years past when he had discovered she was a mage. At least not a cold distance this time, exactly – the small smiles and warm crinkles around his eyes when they spoke in private reassured her – but a distance nonetheless. The small flirtations and teasing he’d increasingly grown into had gone, as if they had never been. With him, it was only business, their reading lessons, or a simple evening of cards. No plays upon words that widened her eyes, no light brushes against her hand or shoulder, not even a rough, caressing whisper in her ear.

Damn it, she _missed_ those whispers.

“ _He’s still considering,_ ” Sebastian had reassured her, after one of his visits with the elf. Of course the Chantry brother had clued in right away. “ _This is a very serious matter to him._ ”

But it concerned her all the same.

Hot, cold, hot, cold. The man’s demeanor was more volatile than an autumn day on the Wounded Coast, bandit fights included. Perhaps she should have felt proud, like the women in the novels Isabela read (and, all right, she also read) to affect a man so, but instead she only felt frustrated.

He had asked her to wait, and she _would_. But in the meantime, he was once more silent, and she knew from her own experience that doubts bred in silences.

After all, she had convinced herself for years he could never want her out of the very same.

Marian sighed again. “I guess I just wish he’d talk more,” she said.

Isabela snorted behind her mug. “I bet you would.”

A light swat at the pirate’s arm – which she dodged anyway – and then Marian pushed up and out of her chair. “All right, enough of that,” she said, a small grin tugging at the corners of her lips. It belied any real accusation, though it did a poor job of belying the lingering disquiet in her eyes. “I do think I’d better go home, though,” she continued. “I’ll lose all my coin to you two as I am now.”

Which she usually did any day, but no one mentioned it as Isabela crossed her arms with a disappointed moue and Varric simply offered a kind smile.

“Well, remember that job on the coast tomorrow morning,” Varric said, a chuckle in his throat. He swept a hand around the table to gather up the cards and began reshuffling. “You know Aveline would have our heads if we forgot.” He lowly added, “As much as some of us may wish they could.”

“Glad I dodged that one,” Isabela muttered.

“Yes, of course,” Marian replied, idly waving a hand. She took her coat from the back of her chair and pulled it on tight. Then she grabbed her other two coats and yanked those on as well. “Meet at the east gate on the eighth bell to go take care of some raiders. Got it.” She turned on her heel and strode to the exit.

As she reached the doorway, Varric called out, “Remind Fenris on your way back, would you?”

She nodded, and then with another step she was outside, the air against her face sharp with salt and the chill of the wind. She stopped for a moment, as much to relish its familiarity as for the hard slap it gave her.

Winter had arrived with all the grace of a deer bounding through a snow-blanketed forest, only to hit a frozen lake and tumble for the next twenty yards. In the past two weeks, breezes had turned to gusts, gusts had turned to gales, and gales had turned to _Maker’s breath, two coats and a scarf weren’t anywhere near enough_. Every day, dark clouds threatened a blizzard or at least a good go at heavy snowfall – though neither ever came, true to Kirkwall’s habit of dashed expectations. Even so, with the spray of the sea, ice formed anywhere it could reach, and in a few places no one ever quite figured out. A hard winter bent on battering everyone’s faces and hands into freezing submission, and if it couldn’t get those, their knees were just as good.

It was, in other words, a season truly fit for Kirkwall.

Marian sighed as she eyed the stairs ahead of her. There was no telling just how much black ice she’d find between here and home. At least she was heading up rather than down, she supposed.

She squared her shoulders against the wind and willed a small measure of courage.

Then a shout caught her from behind: “Hawke, if you ever go to the Blooming Rose – it’s on me!”

An amused laugh faintly followed. “Such a giver, Isabela.”

Marian huffed and shook her head. Then, with another wary once-over of the stairs, she stepped forward and on her way back to Hightown. First, a quick stop at Fenris’ manor – where she’d be lucky to get more than a few polite words in response – and then to her own, to wallow in bed for the rest of the day. Or at least a good half hour. Then she’d probably get up and find a mind-numbing book to fall into.

 _Someday_ , she told herself, _Fenris will give me his answer._ She couldn’t decide if the thought reassured or rattled her. But she could wait; it was the least she could do for him.

She didn’t have to wait long.

They were well into their third band of raiders the next day – blood-spattered, armor nicked and dinged, skin covered in shallow gashes, but making more progress than the guard had in months – when Aveline spotted the figures on the bluff overlooking the deep gulley. An attempted ambush, planning to strike from above while they were distracted and weakened. Their armor gleamed dark and heavy under the winter-washed sun, save for one in robes who stood next to a man at their front. A mage, most likely.

“More raiders above!” the guard-captain shouted. “Watch yourself!”

Fenris glanced up and then drove his sword through the last of their assailants with a hard swing. A risky maneuver – one he took another screeching slash across his steel cuirass for before the man fell – but unflinchingly strong and swift. But it was a swiftness meant more to finish one opponent so as to focus on a greater one – or to simply run.

Despite Varric’s penchant for her more reckless side in his stories, Marian did know the latter’s signs, if not in the enemy itself then in her companions’ reactions. She had ended more than a few fights by hightailing it in the other direction. Just less so these days.

Marian stepped back, ensuring she had a clear line of sight into the group above and the gorge on either side of herself. She concentrated on the flicker of magic growing within her stave.

Fenris readied his sword with a snarl. “That armor is of Tevinter make. Those are hunters!”

“Hunters?” Aveline yelled back in confusion, and then understanding dawned. Her brow furrowed as she raised her sword and shield as well. “They’ll have to get through me first.”

They left unsaid _who_ the hunters were after. Behind them, Varric cocked another bolt into Bianca. Marian stood beside him, her heartbeat too loud in her ears as she gathered more energy in her staff, focusing it, the core crackling tight and hot beneath her grip with the magic. _They will_ not _take him_ , she silently swore.

Seeing their surprise thwarted, the group stood, their pauldrons shining against the dulled sky like daggers. Ostentatious daggers, to be precise; meant more for intimidation and posturing than real use.

Marian briefly wondered if they ever cut their cheeks on them by accident.

The man at their head shouted down, “Stop right there!” A sneer caught the edge of a shadow across his face. “You are in possession of stolen property. Back away from the slave now and you’ll be spared!”

Never mind they had been intent on doing away with all of them but moments ago.

Marian glared up at the hunters. “Fenris is a free man!”

The man took it poorly. “I won’t repeat myself,” he snarled. “Back away from the slave _now_!”

Fenris growled, “ _I am not your slave!_ ”

If the elf’s declaration wasn’t apparent enough, the brilliant-blue glow of his brands flaring to life cleared up any lingering confusion. The head of the hunters barely finished a short twitch of his fingers to his fellows before they were responding, the fighters drawing their swords in a chorus of whispering metal as they began advancing down the slope. Beside him, the mage raised his hands for a spell.

The fireball Marian had been building in her staff hit him first.

It struck with a roar and sent the mage screaming to the ground – and likely killed him, by the way a low gurgle and then silence followed shortly after. The force of the blast also knocked back the head of the hunters and several of the fighters, sending one toppling down into the gulley. The man struggled to his feet, eyes murderous. But one shield bash from Aveline struck him back down, and he didn’t rise again.

The other hunters would not be so easy. By then, they had recovered, and the swordsmen split into two groups as they slid down the sandy cliff – one on each side, so as to pen them in. Fenris and Aveline responded quickly to both flanks, one defending against the other, while Marian and Varric focused on picking off the attackers one by one. A shot of frost here, a bolt through the neck there, swords shrieking as they parried and clashed – slowly but surely they regained the battlefield as the hunters fell away.

Then, finally, only the four of them stood in the gorge. Bloody and bruised, but they’d won, and Marian was already working on their injuries with what healing she could manage. She downed a lyrium potion – its magical chill burned down her throat – and mended the worst of the gashes. Not as well as Anders would have done, but enough to safely return to Kirkwall by. Except…

“The leader!” Fenris snarled, his eyes darting to the empty bluff with a scowl. “He’s escaped!”

Aveline grimaced as she wiped her sword clean on one of the dead men. “He’s undoubtedly gone to report back to whoever he’s working for. That, and recover the numbers he just lost.”

Marian looked to Fenris, concern creased in her brow. “Then they’ll come for you again,” she said. “Maybe in the mansion, even.”

Fenris snarled again. He paced the breadth of the gulley, glowering at the ground.

Marian could guess his thoughts well enough: Danarius had returned for him, but now they had lost their one chance for information, vanished amidst the shifting sands of the Wounded Coast. They would be lucky to find a few footprints on the windswept cliff high above, much less a trail. The guard usually relied on scouts and numbers to flush out their targets on the twisting shore, and they had neither, nor could they hope to obtain them fast enough with Kirkwall over an hour’s hard sprint away and the afternoon wearing on to sunset.

Search aimlessly or run back to call on the guard, the hunters would have all the time to flee. They could well stroll away if they so liked and plan their next attack over supper.

Then Marian heard it: the soft crunch of dragging dirt and gravel.

Her head whipped towards the sound, just as quickly as Fenris stopped on his heel. A figure was crawling away from them and further down the gorge – the swordsman Aveline had left for dead. He pulled himself across the sand slowly, carefully, in an attempt to remain unnoticed. The sudden silence alerted him he hadn’t. He froze and dropped his head to the ground, but not fast enough.

Fenris stalked over to the man. With a few sharp words and several sharper blows to the head, they had a name and a location. Then, in the elf’s capable hands, the survivor wasn’t one anymore.

 _Hadriana_. Fenris hissed the name like a curse.

“I was a fool to think I was free,” he said. He turned back to Marian and clenched his hands into fists, anger shaking in his arms. “They’ll never let me be!”

“Who is Hadriana?” Marian asked.

“My old master’s apprentice,” he replied, a growl like hot embers low in his throat. “I remember her well. A sniveling social climber who would sell her own children if she thought it would please Danarius. If she’s here, it’s at his bidding. I knew he wouldn’t let this go!”

“Then we go after them,” Marian said. “We’ll stop this before it goes any further.”

Fenris’ scowl softened a little. “I know the way to the holding caves the swordsman spoke of,” he said. “They held slaves in the old times, but apparently they are no longer abandoned. We must go quickly, before Hadriana has a chance to prepare – or flee.”

They had precious little time to dwell on either possibility. They hastened across the rocky dunes, running hard and fast in pursuit of their lone lead at the caves to the north.

They hashed together a strategy as they ran. A half-formed thing, really, more reliant on their usual tune of “fighters in front, the rest in the back, and watch for any pointy bits on the ground” with a dash of forethought for mage enemies in particular. But they did the job – out of skill and strength, their well-practiced flow, or simply sheer luck – and that was what counted. It always worked out, Marian knew – one way or another.

What followed this time went worse.


	13. Part Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Heads-up for more serious topics in the next couple of parts. Nothing too terribly detailed, though.

They’d _won_ , if that was all one cared for. But at the cost of a slaughtered mass of slaves, their flesh cleaved and drained dry of blood for spells Marian shuddered to think of. Considering all that she’d seen in Kirkwall already, that was saying something. Hadriana’s corpse lay crumpled against the far wall, a small thing compared to the many others piled in the corners, out of the way, like used tissues. Marian wondered – a grimace on her face – if the woman had spared them about as much thought when they still lived.

Aveline swore as she searched the bodies for a breath, a pulse, anything, even as they all knew it beyond hope. Varric gagged at the stench behind the collar of his coat. Marian stood numbly, her mind whirling with Fenris’ parting words: bitterness, anger, and smothered fear mingled together in his rough voice.

“ _What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?_ ” he’d snarled.

Curses brimmed in his throat – at Hadriana, this new possibility of a sister, the blood mages, and magic as a whole. He’d glowered fiercely, rage roiling within, and whirled to her – in demand, in supplication, or to vent, she still wasn’t certain – but then just as abruptly stopped. Something of the fury bled from him in that moment, and instead he simply sighed, eyes suddenly so tired, and turned away.

“ _I… need to go_ ,” he’d muttered.

And then he’d left, ignoring her pleas to wait, that he was injured, that more hunters or raiders could be lying in wait. He hadn’t even told her where he was going.

“Shit,” she hissed.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Varric said, muffled behind his collar.

She said it again, but it didn’t help. She paced several times, trying to think, but couldn’t, so she stood still and stared up at the ceiling instead. The vast blankness of water-worn rock greeted her, and high above, a small lizard stared back before skittering away.

The immediate threat had gone, but panic still clawed at her throat. She’d healed what she could of their wounds – save for Fenris, who had run before she’d recovered the mana to do so – but she lingered, uncertain of where to go next, at what to do, at what she _could_ do.

Should she run after Fenris? Should she stay – and if so, for _what_?

 _They’re dead_ , she thought, her mind reeling with the corpses. Horror and guilt crushed together like boulders in her chest. She should have been faster, smarter, _something_ – but such second-guessing was now far too late. The leader of the hunters had reached Hadriana before them, and the warning – however short – had secured the slaves’ fate.

Marian stared hard at the ground, hands clenching closed hard enough to dig crescents into her palms. _Maker_ , she thought. _They’re_ all _dead._

Save for one.

“Orana,” Marian said, softly at first, then louder: “Orana!” They’d left the young elven woman near the entrance of the cave, in a hidden alcove, but unable to spare someone to guard her. She spun to Varric and Aveline, nerves shaking and determined all at once. “Go – go find her, make sure she’s all right. Take her to my place; she’ll be safe there.” She paused, trying to think again, but gave up. “I need to find Fenris.”

She didn’t wait for their reply. She couldn’t, not when she had already lost precious minutes just forming some semblance of a plan.

Marian dashed out of the cave and back onto the coast. She followed the winding trail of Fenris’ footsteps, growing fainter by the moment as the wind swept them over – down a sandy hill, across several dunes, through a gorge – but lost them near the shore in amongst a thick cluster of rocks. She called his name several times, each time fearing she’d draw attention to herself or him. But no one answered, save for the crash of the waves and the gulls crying high overhead as they flew in slow, spinning wheels.

 _By the Blight, that idiot_ , she seethed. He’d frustrated her countless times in the past – with his remarks on mages, the cool distance he insisted on maintaining with everyone and everything, and how damned right he could be in his cynicism. But this – this gut-wrenching _worry_ – by far had been the worst.

For a second, she wanted to find him just to give him a hard jab in the shoulder.

It wasn’t until the sun was bleeding into the sea that she ceased searching. Several more raiders lay dead behind her in the sand, and even though she ached down to her bones, she couldn’t imagine stopping. Or at least not until she tripped over a root and into a shallow ravine. She suffered only a face full of dirt and a superficial cut across her arm for the fall, but the pain was enough to revive what little common sense she had. Without daylight, she’d be fortunate enough to find her own way across the shore, much less the sullen elf.

Then she considered the possibility of a winter night alone on the coast with what little supplies she had – not even a tent or a blanket – and a shudder went straight through her frame.

She sighed into the ground beneath her, her breath beginning to fog in the air. She took a moment to calm her nerves, and then she got up and wiped off the grime as best she could. _Tomorrow_ , she swore. If she found no sign in Kirkwall that evening, she’d continue her search then.

As she started back to the city, she could only hope the hunters weren’t again a step ahead of her.

She focused on that hope during the long trek back. With little else to occupy her thoughts beyond a constant wariness for bandits and the occasional slick rock beneath her feet, it was too easy to let fears slip in. Hope was better; with hope, she could think and plan. With hope, she found the will to hurry her steps, and so she poured her energy into it. When she began to shiver no matter how she tugged on her coat, breathed into her palms, and clapped her hands against her sides, she started to wonder if she should have returned sooner.

But, at last – around a bend and up a steep hill – the warm city lights blazed into view. Her hands shaking, her arms quaking, and the rest of her but a beat from following full on, she scrambled over the rise and to the road. She sighed in bliss as she joined the warm rush of travelers crowding into the city.

Then, as she passed through the city gate, she caught sight of a familiar blond head.

“Varric!” she called, waving a considerably-steadier hand over the crowd. “I’m over here, Varric!”

The dwarf hurried through the throng to her. As he came closer, she could see the haggard step in his stride and the weariness in his face. He swept a hand over his forehead, smearing back dust and sweat into his hair. Marian couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen him so disheveled, perhaps not even since their venture into the Deep Roads. A pang of shame struck her at the realization of just how long she had been away.

Then she cringed at the thought of the talking-to she was about to get.

“Andraste’s flaming ass,” he grumbled as he came to a stop in front of her. A mixture of anger and concern warred in expression, until it finally settled on the latter. “Where in the Void did you disappear to? You’ve been gone for hours!”

She cringed again. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time while I was searching,” she softly replied. “I didn’t think you’d stay out looking for me.”

“Didn’t _think_?” He threw his hands into the air. “What am I supposed to think?” he cried. “I see my best friend go running off into Maker knows what danger – alone – and I’m supposed to just hope for the best? Aveline nearly had to wrestle me to the ground to keep me from following!” He shook his head and crossed his arms with an agitated air. “Had to remind me about the elven girl – again – before I stopped.”

Another pang of guilt hit Marian. “Is Orana…?”

Varric sighed, and whatever anger he had left fell from him, as if he simply couldn’t sustain it. Not against her, at any rate. “Safe. At the Amell estate, as you wanted,” he replied. “I told Bodahn to give her a room, some fresh clothes, a hot meal, and… just to tell her to take it easy.”

“Thank you, Varric,” she said, earnestly, but he only waved it off. After a moment, she added, “Have… Have you seen any sign of Fenris? I couldn’t find him.”

Varric heaved another sigh and shook his head. “Aveline got caught up in reporting the mess those blood mages made – to the Viscount, First Enchanter, _and_ the Knight-Commander all at once. Don’t want to even imagine the sort of day she’s having,” he said with a huff. “I actually sent off a few of my guys several hours ago to search the city. No word back yet, though. I would have looked myself, but I didn’t want to miss the chance you might come through the gate.” A rueful smile twitched on his lips as he looked up at her. “Do you know how long I’ve been out here pacing at the entrance? You’re paying for the new tread on my boots.”

The laugh that burst from her throat caught her by surprise, but it died just as quickly. She ran a hand across her cheek as worry set in once more. “Do you think he already made it back to Kirkwall?”

“It’s possible,” Varric replied, then reached up to press his own hand against her cheek. “Maker’s breath, Hawke, you need to rest.”

“I need to find Fenris,” she stated, and tried to ignore the wavering note of exhaustion in her voice.

“Then I’m coming with you this time,” he said.

Marian nodded, and they set out into the dimming light of dusk. The gate opened into the slightly-less-crusty end of Lowtown, and so they started there.

First at the market, questioning merchants as they closed up their stores for the day. But none could remember seeing the white-haired elf, or – sensing an opportunity – their memories had become too expensive for Marian and Varric to spare time bartering on. Instead the two continued on to the Hanged Man in hopes of some news from Isabela, one of the few people who had something that resembled a friendship with the brooding man, or at least enough of an interest she would have noted his passing.

But she was nowhere to be found, only more of the daunting Qunari glaring at everyone, as well as a dwarf from the Merchants Guild sitting at the bar. At the sight of the latter, Varric quickly yanked Marian back, out onto the street, and down several blocks before saying a word.

“Well, where next?” he asked as he caught his breath.

Marian sighed and rubbed at her arms. Damn, but if the weather wasn’t trying its hardest to freeze Kirkwall solid that night. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “Do you think he might have gone to Sebastian? He seems to have taken up visiting the chantry these past months. He could be there.”

Varric scoffed through his nose. “Choir Boy? He’s probably already in bed. And the chantry’s closed for today. Unless the elf fell asleep in a closet, the mothers kicked him out hours ago.”

They lapsed into a silence as they thought.

Marian considered stopping by the Amell estate for Ser Barkley. If they could find one of Fenris’ belongings – something he actually used, not just a dusty shirt he shoved into a crack in the ceiling to stop a leak – the hound might follow his smell. But after a moment’s thought, she canned the idea. Picking up a scent was one matter; tracking it in Kirkwall – a place that stank of unspeakable horrors on bad days, and merely fish and piss on good – was another. The hound would be lucky to manage a block, much less the entire city.

And, of course, if Varric was already worried, she knew she didn’t stand a chance if her mother caught sight of her. Even if the woman didn’t look it, two decades of farm work had given her a strong set of arms that had no problem hauling home adventurous children to be given a firm lecture and the master of all glares. Marian held no desire to test how much they’d waned in the years since coming to Kirkwall.

Instead she turned to Varric and asked, “Then… maybe Fenris’ mansion?”

She expected him to dismiss it right out – too obvious, too dangerous, with hunters still a possibility lurking in the shadows – but he only shrugged. “Worth a shot,” he said.


	14. Part Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> Heads-up for more serious topics in the following part. Nothing too terribly detailed, though.

Of course that was where they found him.

Fenris sat at the small table in his quarters, a generous helping of wine bottles set on top, one of which was already three-quarters empty. Namely, the one in his hand. Marian noted with a small amount of warmth in her chest that he’d thought ahead to push the books further away, against the wall. Or perhaps he just wanted the space to actually walk without tripping.

Either way, he seemed comfortable enough reclining back in his seat, downing another draught of the liquor as a small blaze burned in the fireplace behind him. Cozy, almost. If not for the fact he was still clad in his nicked and bloodstained armor.

“Well, I see you’re already hard at work on the cellar’s stock,” Varric muttered.

Fenris lowered his drink and looked up as they entered the bedroom, a measured pace to his hazy gaze. Fairly drunk, then, but not _too_ drunk.

After a moment, he set the bottle down. “Are you looking for something?” he grumbled.

“You, actually,” Marian replied.

His eyes widened. “Me?”

She crossed her arms and scowled, trying to look angry, but she knew she was too tired and concerned to truly succeed. She did her best to pointedly ignore that fact anyway. “Yes, you,” she said, her frown already slipping away. “I- _We_ were worried about you. We had no idea where you’d gone. You could’ve been ambushed by more hunters!”

“After how I crushed that bitch’s heart?” He took up the wine again with a dark, satisfied chuckle, which Marian just barely resisted shivering at. Really, _now_ was not a good time. “I knew Hadriana,” he continued. “Too ambitious and prideful for clever tricks. She threw everything she could at us, and when that wasn’t enough, she used whatever she had left.” He swallowed down a quick, hard draught of liquor. “There won’t be more, not until Danarius has a new plan or another overconfident apprentice eager for his favor.”

“It would have really helped if you told us that _before_ you left, then,” Varric grunted.

“We were still worried,” Marian added, more kindly.

At that, Fenris’ expression softened a little, a guilty crease in his brow. “I apologize,” he replied. “I did not mean to cause such distress. I only needed to be alone for a while.”

Marian sighed and dropped her arms back to her sides as the weight of fear fell away. Knowing Fenris was safe in his mansion – and simply at work on getting plastered, an understandable response – set an ease to her being no balm could match. Except perhaps downing as much alcohol as he seemed intent on.

Maker knew she wouldn’t have minded a few drinks herself right then.

Then Varric gave a warm, though tired, chuckle and said, “Andraste’s ass, Elf, you know how much of a stir you caused? Hawke even stayed out on the coast searching for you all day and into the evening – alone! Damn near gave me a heart attack, I tell you.”

Marian cringed. He’d meant it good-naturedly, but by the Blight, what she wouldn’t have given to have had the foresight to slap a hand over the dwarf’s mouth.

As matters were, it was already too late.

Fenris shot upright in his seat, eyes round at the news, and unthinkingly reached out for her. She knew he hadn’t thought, because he did so with the hand still wrapped around the wine bottle. Only the fact that it was near empty prevented it from spilling across the floor and possibly onto Varric and her as well.

The elf realized it a second later after she had. He fumbled for a moment, setting the wine on the table once more, before turning to her.

“Hawke,” he finally said, a strained edge to his voice. “You shouldn’t have-”

“What, like you shouldn’t have?” she shot back, a little sharper than she’d intended. When he winced, she couldn’t decide if she felt pleased or sorry. Still, she softened her tone as she continued, “You took off, injured and on your own, across a coast crawling with raiders – _and_ slave hunters, apparently. That’s just reckless.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, his expression tight with a frown. “And yet you ran right after me.”

She huffed. “All right, _I’m_ also reckless.”

A snort tumbled through his throat before he could stifle it. “At least you admit it,” he replied.

She smiled, relieved at the levity, then hesitated before adding, “And… I care about you, Fenris. A lot.”

Silence followed her confession with a suddenness that would have made a pin second-guess dropping to the floor right then. Not so much from the knowledge of it – that was nearly a given by now – but by the open admission that made dodging around the reality of it about as difficult as avoiding the ground after falling from a cliff. Fenris stared at Marian, Marian stared at Fenris, and Varric…

The dwarf coughed into a fist and took a step back, and then another and another. “Right,” he said at the doorway. “You two work out… whatever it is you’ve got going on there. I’ll let Aveline know you’re both safe and sound, and then I need to see about some other accommodations for the night.”

Then, before anyone could say more, he turned and took off down the steps. The sound of the front door creaking shut echoed up the stairs but a moment behind.

Marian ran a hand through her hair with a ragged sigh.

“Anyway,” she said, a touch hurriedly, “my point still stands. You haven’t even taken care of your wounds yet. Didn’t you check before diving into the wine?”

Fenris shrugged off her question. Or rather tried, as the effect was ruined when he grimaced partway through a roll of his shoulders. Instead he settled stiffly back into his seat. “I stopped the worst of the bleeding,” he said mildly. “I’ll dress them tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow, once infection has had its sweet time to set in,” she replied, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. It wasn’t by far the first instance the elf had denied the immediacy of his injuries – Maker’s breath, he’d barely even let her heal him the first year she’d known him – but damn if it didn’t annoy her every time. After a moment, she decided, and said, “Fenris, take off your clothes.”

She internally cringed as soon as the words left her mouth. _It’s been a long day_ , she thought, and quickly kicked the blame to that.

Fenris, however, positively _smirked_ at her, the uncertainty of the previous discussion forgotten. “ _Hawke_ ,” he drawled, in that thick, ash-roughened voice of his that made her toes curl in her boots. “Are you reconsidering my earlier offer – now, of all times?”

Heat swept across her cheeks. She hadn’t even known it was up for reconsideration, but…

 _No_. That wasn’t a bridge she was willing to cross, not now that she’d developed the complication of _feelings_ towards the man. Isabela was right; they were quite pesky. Whipped cream and handcuffs would have been considerably easier. And yet, in some ways…

She sighed again. “Fenris, as attractive as blood and open wounds are, you really need healing, and magic or no, I’m doing it.” She paused. “That, or Anders is.”

The smirk vanished in a heartbeat. “I will not suffer that mage,” he growled.

She fought down her own grin. “Then get your armor off, and I’ll be back in a bit.” Before he could reply – or argue – she turned on her heel and sped down the steps.

Despite the familiarity she’d gained of the manor over the years, it still took her a good while to locate a bucket stuffed in the back of a closet. After shaking out the dust and cobwebs, she filled it with water from the well in the weed-choked garden: once to quickly scrub off the worst of her own muck, and then again for Fenris. Thankfully, it took considerably less poking about to find a pot from the untouched kitchen to boil the water in, and with the help of a small flame in her palm, it was bubbling in minutes.

She hoped he wouldn’t mind that last bit. Boiled water was boiled water, wasn’t it? Better than setting a chimney aflame trying to start a fire in the kitchen stove. She wasn’t sure when he’d last had it cleaned, if ever.

She dug around in the cupboards for a reasonably spotless cloth as she waited for the water to cool. When she stumbled upon a cabinet of them, she thought a moment before taking an armful. She searched several minutes with but a thimble-worth of hope for some elfroot as well, before – thank the Maker for small miracles – she recalled she still had some in the pouches around her belt.

Her supplies gathered, she piled everything into her arms and tromped back upstairs.

Only to nearly drop it all upon seeing Fenris’ quarters.

Distantly, Marian remembered telling him to take off his clothes. In a rather poorly-worded manner, too, she recalled. All the same, she hadn’t expected him to follow the instruction so thoroughly. His cuirass, certainly, and his gauntlets and leather jerkin. The rest she assumed she’d work around, as was usual.

This, however… Well, now she knew what color his underclothes were.

He arched a black brow at her. “Is something the matter, Hawke?”

 _No, nothing at all_ , she wanted to say, first for one reason and then a more sensible one as her original intent returned to mind. An intent that didn’t involve gawking at a drunk man standing near-naked in the middle of his bedroom.

She quickly set her things down on the table – taking care not to topple the wine bottles still there – before turning to him again to answer, preferably with something more dignified than gibberish. She trained her gaze on his face, above the strong line of his bronze shoulders, avoiding the way in which his abdomen muscles bunched and pulled, how the white of his markings twined down and around to…

“Hawke?”

“N-no!” she finally said, snapping her eyes back to his, then away to a wall as temptation nearly took her again. She swore she heard a chuckle rumble in the elf’s damnable, lean throat. “Everything’s just fine,” she added shakily. Heat crawled up her neck, and the warmth of the room from the fire only made her all the more aware of it. She turned and swung off her outwear and onto the back of a chair to occupy her hands. “Would you sit on the edge of the bed, if that’s all right?” she asked. “I can’t reach your back with the chair in the way.”

“As you wish,” he simply said.

She heard the whisper of his feet across the floor, then the creak of the bed as he sat. She didn’t look back right away, instead taking the time to prepare her supplies, neatly folding the cloths and then squeezing a bit of elfroot into the water to help with the pain to come. She knew from experience that very little felt good on an open wound.

When she finally turned back to Fenris, she hesitated, at first from the shock again of seeing him so undressed, and then simply because she was uncertain of where to start. Anders usually handled anything that needed more than a relatively clean bit of fabric and a magical wiggle of one’s fingers. _This_ , however… This was a fair bit beyond that, and then some. Bruises and gashes – though nothing critically deep – littered his body, from the motley collection of dark reds and purples along the shoulder that had given him grief earlier to a large, ragged gash across his shin that she was surprised he could walk on without wincing.

She bit her lower lip to keep from hissing in sympathy, a response she knew would have only annoyed him. Right then she needed his trust, not his aggravation.

Instead she soaked a cloth in the water before sitting beside him.

“Is magic all right?” she asked.

A grimace caught at the corner of his mouth, but he sighed and said, “If it will help with the healing.”

“It will.”

“Very well. Then I will accept yours.”

She started at his shoulder. Though ugly, the injury hadn’t broken the skin. While among the simplest to treat, the relief was immediate, a groan breaking from his throat as she laid her hands gently atop and pressed waves of healing magic within. She held back a shudder and focused on his skin. But that helped much less than she’d hoped, as his lyrium brands softly pulsed with the magic, outlining and emphasizing the curves of muscles.

She stared, transfixed, at the pale blue glow, until he grunted and pushed an arm into her view.

“Continue,” he said.

She swallowed. “I want to heal the gash in your leg,” she replied. “It looks severe.”

She expected him to protest – for the appearance of his characteristic reluctance, if nothing else – but he only grunted again and hefted the limb up and into her lap.

It was… warm, she thought. And very solid. Despite his slighter, elven frame, he was corded with muscle, strength and power evident in every inch of his body. Her mind flashed back to that hot summer day years ago, of how he’d caught her in her foolishness outside the mansion, arms wrapped tight around her middle, the unforgiving press of his body against hers, his voice low and rough in her ear…

Marian quickly forced her mind back to the wound.

Though the injury had since ceased to bleed, the blow that had made it left it far too wide to close on its own. As she’d feared, the hours he’d spent drinking in his mansion had given time for the dust and grime to settle in. She’d need to clean it first before she could try her magic.

She glanced up at Fenris. “This may hurt.”

He huffed and rolled his eyes. “I’m not made of glass, Hawke,” he replied. “Get on with it.”

With a nod, she took the soaked cloth she had set aside and gently pressed it against the gash. He hissed at the contact – though only for a short second – but she didn’t pause as she began to rub. When the cloth turned a ruddy brown from blood and dirt, she turned it over to unsoiled patches until, at last, the injury was as clean as she could manage. With another quiet hiss from Fenris, she pressed it closed and healed it.

Carefully, she worked her way over the rest of his leg, then the other, and then to his arms and chest. In time, it got easier, her thoughts falling away as the task took more of her concentration and what little energy she had left to focus at all. She could almost forget it was Fenris before her, sighing and groaning as she swept away his wounds. _Almost_ being the keyword, as every sound still sent a quiet shiver through her body and a pleasant warmth to places she desperately tried to ignore. Nor was it easy to ignore the way the firelight flickered across his body, all warm and inviting against hard muscle and easing nerves.

But, before she quite realized it, she had finished. The bruises had faded, and the cuts receded to a pale remnant. She trailed her fingertips along his back, then his shoulders, as her magic sought out any last injuries. Then, almost reluctantly, she drew away.

Fenris seized her hand before she could. She stared at his own hands for a second in shock before looking up into his green eyes, at once soft and nervous-sharp.

“Hawke,” he said, and her breath caught at the earnestness she heard in his voice. “I’d been thinking about what happened with Hadriana.” He swallowed, his gaze darting away for a short moment before locking on hers once more. “I took out my anger on you. Undeservedly so. I was not myself. I’m sorry.”

Before she could stop herself, she reached over and squeezed the hands around hers with her free one. But he didn’t seem to mind, and he made no effort to push it away.

“I was worried about you, Fenris,” she replied.

He looked down, but through the fringe of his white hair she couldn’t tell where his gaze exactly fell. “When I was still a slave, Hadriana was a torment,” he confessed. “She’d ridicule me, deny my meals, hound my sleep. Because of her status, I was powerless to respond, and she knew it.” His hands tensed in hers, and instinctively her fingers took to drawing a comforting circle along the back of one. “The thought of her slipping out of my grasp now…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t let her go. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

She stared down at the bowed head in front of her in confusion. She’d never doubted the cause of his anger, nor blamed him for it, but that he hadn’t even _wanted_ to kill the woman…

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“This… _hate_ ,” he said, his voice low and cracking. “I thought I’d gotten away from it, but it dogs me no matter where I go. To feel it again, to know it was they who planted it inside me, it was too much to bear.”

“Fenris…” She wanted to say more, but the words eluded her.

He shook his head once more. “I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t mean to burden you further.”

But his apology only rankled her. Again, an echo of that day nearly two weeks ago in his quarters, and then all of the other days he’d said or implied the same: that he wasn’t worth time, or affection, or even the mere hope of something more. She scowled at the top of his head. Then, realizing he couldn’t see it, she took her hands from his and, before she could rethink it, pulled him upright and hugged him tightly.

“Hawke…?” he said, an uncertain tremor in his deep voice.

She drew away far enough to look into his wide eyes. For a second, she hesitated, unsure of venturing too far, of crossing unspoken lines. But the words strained against her throat, and in that instant, she lost the will to fight them any longer. And, perhaps, he _needed_ to hear them just as much.

“You’re not a burden, Fenris,” she said firmly, almost angrily – and damn it, she _was_ angry for him. “I won’t say you don’t aggravate me to the Void and back at times, because you do – and especially today when you worried me half to death – but you’re not a burden. You are _never_ a burden.” She tightened her fingers into his back, over his shoulders, and unknowing of quite what else to do to prove it, pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “You’re Fenris, my friend and a man who I-” _Love_ caught on the tip of her tongue. “-care for. _Deeply_.”

In that moment, she hadn’t entirely known what to expect from him. Perhaps he would have pushed her away – her arms too tight, too sudden, and simply too much. Or maybe he would have scoffed, and in a way, that would have hurt more, knowing he didn’t believe her.

But he did neither.

He crushed her against him, arms clumsy but unyielding around her own as he embraced her hard enough she swore her back creaked with the force. He held her as though he’d never done so before – with her or anyone – or at least not like this, his shoulders tense and shaking in her own grasp, and for a second she wondered if he had no memories of ever doing so. A touch that wasn’t a claim or a demand, that was only for _him_.

She held him more tightly, or at least what little more she could manage when her own body was being gripped like a vice. “Fenris,” she murmured, and trailed a soothing hand along his back.

He shuddered against her. “ _Hawke_ ,” he said, his voice breaking.

And then the rest came tumbling out – of Seheron, the Fog Warriors, the blood on his hands and the horror in his heart that had driven him to run and run and _run_. Then it was no longer just this one day of fighting and atrocity, nor just Hadriana or Danarius, but the life he had never allowed himself, _could_ never have allowed himself, not fully. Like a dream – a fantasy life – that would inevitably shatter, one way or another.

She quietly listened as he told her, rubbing a comforting hand across his back all the while. Then, as the last of his admission drifted into silence, he slowly calmed, heaving several deep breaths against her shoulder. She gently squeezed him again.

“This can’t be easy to talk about,” she murmured.

“I’ve never spoken about what happened to anyone,” he replied, his voice still rough and cracked with emotion. “I’ve never wanted to.”

“I appreciate you telling me,” she said.

They fell into a quiet that was both comfortable and raw. It was easy – _too_ easy – to stay the way they were. Each of them leaning upon the other, arms loose but still locked around one another’s waists, his skin warm beneath her hands as she pressed circles into his back, and the light a gentle glow from the waning fire in the hearth. His head rested on her shoulder close enough that his silver hair clouded her vision, and his breath was hot against her neck, both sweet and sour from wine.

Marian lost track of how long they spent that way. She only knew any time had passed at all when she suddenly realized her eyes had closed and the room grown cool.

She jerked awake, and Fenris grunted tiredly as he did the same.

She should go, Marian realized. She was exhausted beyond all measure – her eyes still drooping – and he was that and drunk as well. _And nearly naked_ , a part of her mind oh-so-helpfully supplied.

Then Fenris chuckled, a sore but tender sound that scratched up from his throat.

“You’ve gotten the bed dirty, Hawke,” he muttered.

She huffed. “And you the chair.”

Another chuckle that rumbled against the arms around his back. “Then we are a pair.”

She softly laughed in return, and he hummed pleasantly against her shoulder. Then, as that, too, fell back into silence, she wavered. She opened her mouth several times, half-formed excuses in her throat, but never quite managed any of them out. Then, at last, she gave him a final squeeze and pulled away.

He let her go, his fingertips trailing after her arm for a second more before falling away.

Marian did her best to ignore the way his touch lingered, a warm memory tingling against her skin, and turned to face him with what she hoped was an even expression. “Well,” she said, her breath a touch uncertain as she stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. “You know where to find me, in case you get any more hunters, or mercenaries, or particularly persistent salesmen.”

Fenris snorted back a startled laugh. “I will be fine, Hawke,” he said. “But thank you.”

“And you’ll use the elfroot if you feel any pain, won’t you?” she asked, more seriously.

“Yes, I will,” he replied, a warm sigh in his voice. At her glance towards the soiled cloths she’d left piled on the floor beside the bed, he quickly added, “I’ll take care of those. You have done more than enough for me today, and certainly more than I deserve after everything.”

She scowled at him. “Don’t make me hug you again.”

He didn’t laugh that time, but a small, almost shy smile broke across his lips. “I… might not mind that so much, actually,” he replied.

Something in chest fluttered, and then so did her stomach and a few other parts she didn’t know even could. Her neck burned with a growing blush.

“R-Right,” she said, and resisted the urge to rub the back of her neck. She focused instead on hauling on the clothing she’d left on the chair, and she was surprised when she actually managed to pull on her coats in the right order. “Right,” she said again, turning back to Fenris. “I’d better get home.”

Fenris stiffened, his fingers clenching into the sheets, as if he had something more to say. But then his eyes darted way and he simply nodded. “Very well, Hawke.”

“Would it be all right if I came by tomorrow? Just to chat?” And to check in on him, she silently added.

Another curt nod. “Of course.”

She watched him for a moment more, other thoughts on the tip of her tongue, before she finally forced her feet to move. First one step back, and then another and another, until she stood at the doorway. There she paused again, feeling as if there _had_ to be more to say, but once more the words eluded her.

“Good night, Fenris,” she whispered at last and then, before she could think again, turned and left.

She took the stairs at a fast pace, barely pausing to open and close the front door, and she didn’t stop until she was outside, and only because she nearly ran into the guard standing beside the gate. Almost _too_ pointedly standing beside it. She made a note to tell Aveline her guards weren’t nearly as subtle as they thought they were, muttered a quick apology, and then was on her way once more.

Her mind whirled with the events of the day and Fenris’ past, but she was too exhausted to truly absorb and understand everything it meant, or what it could mean.

 _Sleep_ , she commanded herself, pressing a weary hand to her forehead. A bit of rest would make matters clearer.

Maker’s breath, but she would need it after the lecture her mother was going to give her.


	15. Part Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> At last - smut!

Unsurprisingly – considering the long evening spent listening to her mother, and then the longer night worrying over Fenris and now Orana – Marian Hawke found herself sleeping in late. Late enough that she’d not only missed any chance of breakfast but lunch as well by over an hour, and then as if to add insult to injury, she found the manor empty and a note in her mother’s writing on the counter.

 _My dearest sweetie-buns_ –

Marian cringed.

_Bodahn had an errand come up, and he said he probably won’t be back till tonight. I had a get-together planned for today with the Rutledges – you remember them, don’t you? They have such a nice, handsome son – and since Orana seemed restless, I took both her and Sandal with me. Perhaps a bit of fresh air would do her some good, don’t you think? I expect we’ll return sometime a bit past supper. Your mabari is already sleeping off his breakfast in the library, so no worries on his account._

_There is still plenty of food in the pantry, should you get hungry. I imagine your time spent gallivanting around the coast have given you skills enough to cook it yourself._

_Much love from,_

_Mother_

_P.S. No running off with your friends just yet. I’m still not finished with you._

Marian sighed as she set the note back down, and a moment later her stomach joined in with a loud growl. She grimaced at the sound and the hunger in her gut gnawing sharper with each passing moment. Food or no, she knew she wouldn’t survive the time it took to prepare it, or at least her patience wouldn’t.

She had nearly settled on slipping under a blanket and passing peacefully into the beyond when she recalled:

 _Wait, I’m rich. I can just_ buy _a meal – whenever I want!_

Of course her mother wouldn’t approve, but then again, she wasn’t there to stop her. Marian pointedly ignored that most of her bad ideas began with people not being around to stop her.

Her stomach grumbled again as she gathered up her coats and – glad she’d already washed the night before – stepped out in search of a meal. Which alone wasn’t difficult, considering the numerous fashionable cafés that lined Hightown’s streets, but more for the fact the food was equally fashionable, with dainty plates and even daintier proportions. She frowned at the list of expensive, nigh-unpronounceable dishes on the menu, ordered one in the vain hope it would grow five times larger by the time it reached her table, and then wound up downing two baskets of free bread – and by habit stuffing another’s worth down an inner coat pocket – while she waited.

In the end, she thought as she left the café with a renewed spring in her step, it came out quite well, or at least for the moment. A rather novel thing, that.

Besides which, now she had _snacks_. She patted her pocket with a wide smile as she strode back home. Snacks were always wonderful, and few things could rival free bread in particular. Not even the bread she made or bought, in fact. She wondered at that, then resolved on a whim to ask Varric, Isabela, or even Fenris – some of the few people who withstood such questioning from her – the next time she saw them.

 _Fenris_ , she thought again suddenly, remembering her plan to check in on him.

She eyed the sun’s position through the grey layer of clouds and estimated mid-afternoon. With the winter light, she’d have but a few hours more to do so before it grew dark again.

Her steps faltered as she worried when he’d last eaten. She knew he’d taken a light meal at noon the other day, when they’d had a break from the raiders, but beyond that? Considering the amount he’d drunk, he might not have managed emerging from his manor since, and he wasn’t known for stocking much on his own.

Decided, she picked up her pace. Or at least as much as she could with black ice still about.

It’d take her but a moment to drop off the bread – in a high cupboard, far out of reach of Ser Barkley – and then it’d take her but a little while more to grab something from a café for him. Something _substantial_ ; she didn’t mind spending money on him. And if he asked, she also had no problem fudging just how much.

Lost in her thoughts, it took her a few seconds – enough for her to turn and shut the door she’d left unlocked behind herself – to wonder, _Wait, when did I get a Fenris-shaped statue in the entry?_

Then she remembered she didn’t have one, though not for a lack of hoping.

“ _Marian_.”

If simply hearing her family name from his lips tripped her breathing, her first name sent something fierce and hot that swept all the way from her head to her toes and then back.

She turned, slowly, not quite in belief he was really there, much less what she’d just heard. But there she saw him, standing beside the bench – or rather prowling, his shoulders bent and his head lowered just enough to shadow his green eyes into the color of pine. She caught a glimpse of his appearance – his dirty hair from the day prior washed to a silver shine and his bronze skin scrubbed of grime. Even the clothing he wore – just his jerkin and leggings, practically undressed if not for last night – had been cleaned and then hastily patched.

She would have wondered at this meticulousness, but then he was stalking over to her.

“I have been thinking of you,” he confessed, his voice a low, raw roughness that summoned a memory from a fortnight ago. “In fact, I’ve been able to think of little else.”

At the sound of him – and especially _this_ sound – her heart pounded in her chest, her mind swimming with how he’d kissed her hard and pushed her down on the bed that one afternoon. Then her mind caught up with what he’d said, and the fact he’d stopped but a few inches from her and it hadn’t even _occurred_ to her to step back, and her skin suddenly felt too hot despite the cold she’d just come in from.

“F-Fenris?” she said, and Maker, she _couldn’t_ help the stammer. “I was just about to come see you.”

A small smile flickered over his lips. He lifted a hand to her cheek, his skin barely brushing hers. “Marian,” he said again, a gentle murmur that simmered something deep in her chest. “I honestly don’t know what will come of this, but… I wish to try.” His eyes searched hers, quiet and aching. “Tell me if you no longer want this. Command me to go, and I shall.”

She placed her own hand over his and pressed it fully against herself. “No need,” she said, soft and a smile in her voice, and no doubt a larger, sillier smile on her face.

He simply breathed for a long moment, his eyes wide and warm as he gazed into hers.

Then, before she quite knew what had happened, he slid the hand against her cheek into her hair, slipped an arm around her back, and pulled her tight against him in a kiss.

A slow, _deep_ kiss. Maker, but he’d certainly remembered their last ones, and she had to resist clinging to him when he sucked on her bottom lip and then swept his tongue along the inside. A point of pride, she thought; she’d been the one to teach him so after all. But then her pride was forgotten as he pushed her back and into the wall, trapping her in with his arms, a thigh between her legs, and the smells of worn leather and something hot and sharp that was him. Then he drew the kiss deeper and _deeper_.

Until a stick of bread up and jabbed him in the chest.

Fenris grunted and pulled back, his gaze dark with desire even as he glowered down at the guilty loaf. “Why,” he huffed, and she tried to feel a little bad even _that_ aroused her, “is there bread in your coat?”

“It’s free bread,” she replied, or perhaps more aptly gasped. Sweet Andraste, but he was a fast learner and then some.

He stared back at her, an arched eyebrow saying without words that she’d explained nothing.

She grinned back, too innocently to truly be and knowing it. “What?” she said. “I risked life and limb for that bread, I’ll have you know. I fought off a giant for it. _Several_ giants.”

He snorted. “I am sure, Marian.”

She laughed, and his eyes narrowed in wry amusement and then longing. He pushed closer, ignoring the bread between them, and slowly leaned down to capture another kiss. She sighed, melting with anticipation.

Then she remembered: “Have you eaten anything today, Fenris?”

He hummed noncommittally and pressed his lips to hers, or rather tried, as she turned her head to dodge him at the last second and he kissed her cheek instead.

More sharply, she asked again, “ _Have_ you eaten anything?”

He huffed through his nose. “I have greater interests in mind at the moment,” he replied, and cupping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turned her to face him and bent down once more.

And found the loaf of bread against his lips.

“ _Marian_ ,” he snarled, and by the Blight, she quite liked _that_ sound, too. “I have no desire for games.”

She smiled back, and tried to tamp down on the “brightly” bit, though judging by his glare, she hadn’t succeeded well. “How about a deal, then?” she asked, quickly, before he lost his patience and simply shoved her onto the bench and snogged her right then and there. Which she honestly wouldn’t have minded any other time, but right _now_ … “For every piece of bread, you can have a kiss.”

He grunted but paused, _considering_ , and that was the important part, she reminded herself. His gaze flicked between the bread and her lips – lingering on the latter – before he sighed and said, “Deal.”

Then he tore off a bite between his teeth and swallowed it whole.

“Fenris!” she gasped, an admonishing tsk in her tone. “Didn’t anyone tell you to chew-”

He crushed his lips against hers in as demanding of a kiss as the one before. One moment hard and unrelenting, his teeth pressing sharp and thrilling against her bottom lip, and then the next moment gentle, softening to simple, teasing brushes of their lips, before deepening again. All the while his hands never let up, the one at her face slipping to the back of her head and carding through her hair, and the other… Maker, but in one smooth motion the other drew along her side and down to her hip to grip her firmly against the thigh grinding into her.

She broke the kiss with a gasp, then gave a shuddering moan as he pushed harder against her. He growled – a low, _unfairly_ erotic sound that turned her knees to jelly – and bent down to continue.

And met a face-full of bread again.

“Another piece,” Marian rasped, determined.

Fenris made no argument. He tore off a portion, chewed _once_ , and then swallowed.

Then his lips were on hers again, as sinfully wonderfully as the last and – Andraste’s tits, she couldn’t deny it – made all the better by how he pushed his leg against her core. Even through the material of her breeches and smallclothes, she could feel it, all heat and muscle rubbing into her, _demanding_ her pleasure.

His thigh shifted, catching her clit _just so_ , and she cried out.

This time he required no prompting, taking a piece of bread before pressing against her once more. And then again and again, every break earning another portion until half of the loaf was gone and she could barely hold it steady anymore through the lust burning in her nerves.

“Y-You’re cheating,” she gasped, nearly sobbing, when another kiss broke.

“How so?” he asked, and ignored the bread entirely.

She moaned as his thigh caught upon her once more, and he abruptly slowed, unmercifully _dragging_ it against her as she shuddered and tensed around him. “Y-You,” she tried, failing as he just as suddenly pushed back and caught yet again. Her toes curled and her back arched, every inch of her feeling on edge.

“Me?” he said, and Maker damn him, she didn’t think he could sound more smug if he tried.

She swallowed thickly. “ _You_ ,” she replied, half a hiss and half another helpless groan, “are g-going to make me _come_ , if you k-keep that up.”

“Then come,” he said, a wide smirk on his lips and his voice rumbling deep and as rough as gravel.

He tightened his fingers, pulling her down harder, forcing her against his thigh even as she gasped and shuddered and then lost her grip on the bread completely. It fell to the floor with a thump somewhere, but she barely even noticed, pleasure curling tight and hot as he pushed and _pushed_.

“Come for me, Marian,” he growled, deep and achingly carnal. “ _Now_.”

She shattered, ecstasy clenching powerfully inside of her as she uncontrollably arched and wailed against him. He kept on, grinding against her to draw it out as long as possible until she was shivering and weakly pushing at him. But trying to move him was like trying to move a stone wall, and he growled again – sending another shuddering bolt of pleasure straight to her core – and ground against her even more deeply.

“Again,” he demanded.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she sobbed, shaking her head in denial even as she felt herself tense and heat for another. Her slick coated her smallclothes and breeches both, and looking down she saw the gleam of a streak even on Fenris’ black leggings. “Maker, _Fenris-_ ” That earned her another especially firm grind. “Bed!” she cried out. “A bed at least – please!”

He didn’t need to be told again.


	16. Part Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinks/Warnings: F!Hawke/Fenris pairing, voice.
> 
> Fill for the kink meme prompt posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9730.html?thread=39042562#t39042562).
> 
> And the rest of the smut! Hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading!

In retrospect, Marian would wonder if Fenris had used his lyrium abilities to hasten his pace up the stairs and to her bedroom. He’d managed it so fast, the walls and then the banister but a blur in her vision, that she had to question. As it were, she was only aware of being upright and against the entryway wall one moment, then hanging over Fenris’ shoulder like an undignified sack of potatoes the next, and then Fenris was charging up the steps with a fervor that left her clutching at his belt to hang on.

Never mind the arm firmly wrapped around her thighs accomplished the same. It was the _feeling_ of that security, she thought.

Then that thought fled as he shoved open the door to her quarters and, with a carefulness that surprised her after his prior haste, set her on her feet once more.

As soon as she was standing, though, Fenris wasted no time in pivoting on his heel to shut and lock the door. Or would have, if her door had ever taken well to closing, much less being locked. Instead it stuck against the doorjamb with a squeal, and he shoved against it with a curse. A growling, _delicious_ curse that swept away Marian’s lingering dizziness in favor of rekindling her arousal. She bit her lower lip at the sight of his muscled back working as a wicked idea sprung to mind.

With a roll of her shoulders, she threw off her coats – the room still warm from the fire of the night before – and slunk over to him across the rug without a sound. He grunted, heaving against the door again, and as he pulled away, she draped herself across his back. He stiffened in surprise, but before he could react further, she leaned more firmly against him, pushing him into the door, and pressed a heated kiss to the tip of a pointed ear.

That earned her a low, wonderful groan and a twitch of his hips. “Marian?”

“Having trouble?” she asked, almost too sweetly.

He grunted again, this time in frustration. “Your door is stubborn.”

“Nonsense,” she purred, reaching around to grasp the door handle and then pushing harder against Fenris, her breasts fully against his back. “You just need the right-” Another heavy, steady push – he hissed something in Tevene under his breath – and then a jiggle of the handle, and the door finally slid shut. “-Touch.”

“ _Venhedis_ ,” he groaned as she slid the lock into place.

She had to resist groaning herself at the sound of him. Maker, but his voice alone was pure pleasure, sultry and dark and as thick as honey. She decided then that she had to hear more.

Before he could move, she slipped her hand from the handle and further down, along his leather-clad abdomen, over the metal buckle of his belt, until she felt- _There_. She squeezed the length of him through his leggings, running her hand from base to tip, and he shuddered, another ragged groan escaping his throat. It vibrated against her chest, hardening her nipples, and she couldn’t resist rubbing herself against him. His breathing hitched in response, an impatient murmur at the back of his throat, and he twitched in her grasp.

Without a word, she slid her hand further up, into the waistband of his trousers, and then back down to the erection straining against them. She stroked him again, or at least as well as she could under the tight material, and his hips instinctively rolled with the motion as he let out a deeper moan. She moaned as well, unable to help herself this time as she felt the fluid leaking from the tip. By the Flames, he had to be on edge already.

She drew her hand up and down his length for a while longer, as her mouth by turns nibbled at the curve of his neck and then pressed wet kisses to the shell of his ears. And, Void take her, he felt so good, _sounded_ so good – hissing between his teeth, groaning aloud, whispered oaths of Tevene peppering the air – as he thrust into her touch and desperately grasped at the door, her hip, the wrist of her stroking hand, anything, that she was sorely tempted to bring him to completion right there.

But she had an even better idea in store, and with a final sorry kiss to the nape of his neck she withdrew her hand.

He huffed, his hips thrusting up in a futile effort to follow her touch a second longer, until he realized she’d pulled away and he turned to face her. She swallowed at the sight of him – his eyes pools of black surrounded by a thin ring of green and his lips still reddened and swollen from their earlier kisses.

“Marian,” he groaned, weakly, “what-”

She didn’t let him get further than that. She dropped to her knees, hooking her fingers into his leggings and smallclothes and pulling them down to his thighs as she went.

He grunted again as his erection sprung free from its confines and into the open air. Marian wet her lower lip at the sight of it, as hard and dripping as she’d left it, and Maker, she certainly hadn’t imagined the length and thickness she’d felt. She looked up, catching Fenris’ gaze, and wrapped a purposeful hand around the base of him. His eyes widened as he suddenly understood what she meant to do.

Then she leaned forward and sucked the head of his length into her mouth.

“Ugh! _Futus_!” Fenris cried out, groaning again as she sunk further down his erection. His hands scrabbled wildly for several seconds, clutching at his jerkin and then clawing at the door, before they settled, one curled in her hair and another scratching at the doorframe for some vague purchase. “ _Marian_ ,” he deeply moaned, his fingers tightening as she pulled back slightly before sinking even further. “You-”

Then she did a trick with her tongue that strangled whatever else he planned to say. Instead he hoarsely cried out again, his hips twitching with barely-managed restraint, until she pressed him back against the door.

She wasted no time with games or teasing. Instead she focused on bobbing her head fast and steady, drawing her lips tight around the length of him, and dragging her tongue against his underside and then swirling it around the tip every time she drew back. And, Maker, even that was nearly too much for her, managing just over half of him before she had to resort to using her hand for the rest.

And then the _sounds_ he made… By the Flames, none of her fantasies could have matched those. His husky moans, the breathy gasps that escaped his throat, the catch of air at the end of every rough groan – each one reverberated through her, adding to her own arousal. Before she quite knew she’d done so, she slipped the hand holding his hip against the door down and under her clothes to finger her aching clit, and she moaned as her orgasm fast approached.

Fenris groaned from the vibration, his hips twitching as he fought to remain still, and then his breath suddenly hitched and his body tensed. “ _Marian_ ,” he began, hoarsely, faltering as his breath caught again and every muscle strained ever more towards her. “Futus,” he rasped, “I- I’m-”

She didn’t need him to say more. She tightened her hand around him and sucked hard with another long moan. Then she looked up and locked eyes with his moss-green gaze, and that was enough.

Fenris snarled a string of Tevene as he spilled himself between her lips. His hips bucked in her grasp with each stroke and squeeze, until he was a shaking, moaning mess against the door. Maker have mercy on her, but those sounds alone nearly made her come undone. She shivered, sucking harder, and he let out a hissing sob. He pushed at her with trembling hands several times before she finally relented and drew away.

She frantically rubbed at her clit, a desperate whimper building in her throat. It’d been almost torture to pull away, to let the noises he made _stop_ , and now she felt so close she swore she might burst.

Then Fenris hauled her up by the arms, and her growing orgasm faded.

“Hey!” she whined.

But then he very nearly threw her on the bed with a deep growl, and any further complaint she might have made escaped her lungs in a gasp as she landed face-down. She groaned, her core aching with unquenched desire, and raised herself up on her elbows, and that was as far as she got. Then Fenris was at her back, trapping her against the mattress as he pressed her down with his hard weight.

“Marian,” he rumbled into her ear, his voice even rougher, heavier, after his recent climax, like a liquid pleasure all its own simply to listen to, and with her _name_ nonetheless. She shuddered, her own arousal spiking again. “I’m going to make you come _screaming_.”

And that did it for her. The orgasm she thought had fled returned in a rush at his words, crashing against her with an intensity that left her gasping and whimpering.

Dazed from the sensation – and the fact she’d just come _untouched_ – she barely registered Fenris had turned her over and begun yanking her garments off with a few short motions, or that he’d discarded his jerkin at some point. Not until a stray draft of cool air tickled at her naked skin and she felt his mouth at the curve between her shoulder and neck, biting and sucking with an intensity she knew there would be bruises later. She shivered, then bit her lip again as she looked down and got a brilliant reminder of just how far the markings went.

When he lapped at a particularly firm bite, she moaned and squirmed as she felt her arousal return.

Fenris pinned her arms to the bed with his hands before she could do more.

“Fenris,” she groaned, half in pleasure and half a plea.

He made no reply, save to look up at her with his hooded eyes as he dragged his tongue across her collarbone and then further down to the valley between her breasts. He paused there, inhaling deeply for a moment. Then, with a quick glance up at her and a smug grin on his face, he trailed his lips up to the tip of one breast before sucking it inside his hot mouth.

She gasped and writhed as he lashed his tongue against the sensitive bud. When he lightly pressed his teeth upon her, she hissed and tried to edge away. Then he drew away completely, blowing a breath against the wet flesh and watching her shudder, before sucking it back between his lips and starting anew.

“Fenris,” she groaned again, and canted her hips at him. Any shame she might have had for acting so desperate was lost in the burning haze of her desire.

But he ignored her unspoken entreaty. He drew his mouth upon her with the pace of a man who had all the time in the world. The hurried lust he’d felt before had fallen away with his prior release, and now he contented himself with slowly running his tongue against her breasts, teasing at her nipples, and occasionally raising his head to nibble at her collar. She moaned and whimpered as he did, hopelessly straining against his grip for him to do more, to do _anything_ else at all. But he refused, sucking at her chest until she felt like she might catch aflame from the arousal building up inside of her.

Then, finally, she cried out, “Fenris! Fuck me, _please_!”

He drew away with a smirk and rose to his knees above her, his green eyes dark and gleaming with intent. “And how would you like me to fuck you, Marian?” he growled, pulling her hands above her head to pin her with one of his own. “I’ve already fucked you with my leg.”

She trembled, glancing down to see the patch of her slick still shining on his thigh, and then wet her lip at the sight of his hardening cock, the bitter-salt taste of him still on her lips.

Fenris sharply pinched her nipple between his fingers, drawing her attention back up to him with a cry. “How would you like me to fuck you?” he asked again. “Would you like me to fuck you with my mouth, Marian? You seem to like it well enough whenever I speak with it.” She shivered and softly moaned at the images that leapt to mind. “Or perhaps you would like it more by your ear, telling you to come again and again?”

At her even greater shudder and groan, he smirked and drew his hand down to her soaking core. He sunk one, then two fingers into her with ease, hissing at her heat and slickness.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” he growled. “You are so wet, Marian.”

She gasped and arched as he curled his fingers, finding the spot inside of her and stroking it without mercy.

“Please, Fenris,” she begged again. “Fuck me with your cock. _Please_.”

His smirk grew, and he withdrew his fingers. “Then consider it done, Marian.”

Without another word, he gripped her hips with both of his hands and thrust inside. She closed her eyes and moaned at the feeling of him, his girth stretching her wide and his length increasingly filling her as he slowly drove back and forth to bury more of himself within. Then, finally, just as she thought she couldn’t possibly take more of him, his hips met hers, and she let out another gasp and instinctively tightened around him.

He froze with a surprised grunt, and she whined and squirmed against him.

When his breathing hitched and he still refused to continue, Marian opened her eyes. Above her, Fenris was as unmoving as stone, his eyes tightly shut and his brow pinched, as though he were in pain.

“Fenris?” she murmured. When he didn’t reply – the sudden quiet like a cag crashing down – concern stabbed in her chest. “Fenris, are you all right?” she asked, and reached up with a hand to stroke his cheek.

He shuddered once at the caress but made no other response, growing more distant by the second. Gently, she wound her arms around his shoulders and guided him down to lay atop her. He followed, unresisting, and his weight pressed her into the mattress, though not so heavily she couldn’t breathe.

“Fenris,” she whispered, peppering soft kisses to his forehead and cheeks in what she hoped was a soothing manner. “We don’t have to continue. We can stop if you like.”

Her body protested her words, heat thrumming in her veins. But she did her best to ignore it as she rubbed a hand across his back in soothing circles and repeated his name and her offer.

Slowly, Fenris returned, his breath catching sharply again before he took a deeper, longer one and let it out. Then, at last, he opened his eyes, blinking several times to reorient himself. To the present, to what they had been in the midst of, or even to where he was, she wasn’t entirely sure. In that time, he had grown soft inside of her, and she felt her own arousal receding into a dull ache once more.

He buried his head against her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice muffled against the bed but raw and weak, like the night before, and her heart gave a painful lurch. “I thought I could do this.”

“Shh,” she soothed, stroking his back again. “There’s no shame in needing to stop.”

But he shook his head. “You must hate me for this.”

“Fenris, I don’t hate you,” she replied, trailing her fingers up and down the nape of his neck, and he released a quiet sigh. “We can always stop, no questions asked. It’s all right.” And, if need be, it wasn’t as though she were a stranger to her own hand.

He gave another shuddering sigh. After a long moment, he rose up on his elbows to study her.

Then he cupped her face between his hands and kissed her deeply. As intense as the others, his lips stroking and sucking, his teeth by turns teasing and sharp, and his tongue sweeping across her mouth. She found herself moaning into his lips and clutching at his shoulders with a desperation that shocked her at its quickness. Maker, but the man seemed to only get better and better.

When he thrust into her again – only half-hard, but still enough – she broke the kiss with a gasp.

“F-Fenris,” she said, hissing when he lowered a hand to thumb her clit. “We d-don’t have to…”

“I want to,” he groaned against her throat.

She let out another shuddering gasp as he thrust faster, growing firmer within her by the second. Her arousal quickly blazed back to life. “Remember w-we can s-stop at any time.”

He gave a short nod of acknowledgement and bent down to kiss her once more.

But he didn’t stop this time. He slowed when it became too much, breaths stuttering until he returned to himself, and then he would quicken once more with a deep groan. Again and again he kissed her, and she in return him, and that seemed to ground him more than anything, even as their lips grew hot and sore from so much. Time slipped past unobserved as they lost themselves in each other, their groans and cries muffled against each other’s skin as the daylight dimmed into the reds of sunset and cast the room to a rosy glow. She hardly noticed the air growing cool, too caught up in the feeling of him against her, _in_ her, nearly too warm, then even more so when his leggings and smallclothes had gone – thrown off by him, or miraculously shoved away by her, she couldn’t recall – and he lay upon her completely nude as he still drove himself within.

Hard and fast for a wonderful moment, then slow and soft for an equally aching one. Fenris set the pace, and Marian melted into it. Always keeping her on edge, so close and yet not enough, her orgasm growing and ebbing until she felt she was nothing more than a long, rolling wave of heat and pleasure.

She clutched at him, shamelessly begging, and he groaned heavily into her ear. By the Maker, but she felt as though she could burst, lust burning in her like a fire as he moaned with his ashen-rough voice. At first she thought it deliberate – and perhaps it had started that way, knowing him – but as his groans grew deeper and rasping, control slipping from his voice as his hips jerked against hers, she realized he was too far gone to care anymore, and that aroused her even further.

Then that realization blurred into another as her own body stiffened:

She was going to come. _Hard_.

He realized it a second after her, and he rubbed at her clit firmly. “ _Futus_ , yes,” he groaned, his breath rolling hot against her neck as he pounded into the spot inside of her. “Come, Marian. _Now_.”

She tensed, once, twice – a stray thought fretted at just _how long_ he’d built her up for – and then she tightened and arched, a scream tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashed upon her. Bright and hot, like a wildfire roaring through her body as she helplessly bucked against his driving hips, and for a second she feared it _would_ spill over and out. She was heat and light, the pleasure like a flame searing every inch of her.

She gasped, even the air aching in her lungs from overwrought feeling, and tugged at his hand. He refused, and she tried again, but he was insistent, his thumb pressing tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves. He stared down at her with forest-green eyes dark enough to be swallowed in.

“Marian,” he groaned, and his hips jerked. “ _Marian_.”

Then, with a low growl that rumbled up from his chest and out from his mouth as a rasping, thick moan, he slammed himself inside and came. He shuddered hard as the intensity of the moment overcame him, his fingers stuttering against where they were joined. But it was enough – the ecstasy on his face and in his husky voice, a fingertip dragging against her clit – and she let out a cry as the pleasure burst anew upon her nerves.

But this time was softer, at least, and she whimpered as he slowed and finally drew his hand away. He heaved several shaky breaths, his arms equally unsteady as he held himself above her. With a sigh, she drew him down beside her – shivering as he slipped from within – and pressed an exhausted kiss to his cheek. But then he turned and caught her lips fully, and they lingered that way, soft and warm, too exhausted to do anything more than savor the simple touch.

When they finally parted, Fenris smiled – a gentle, serene smile – and Marian’s breath nearly caught at the sight. He looked so _young_ , she thought; as if years of hardship had been chased away in that moment. An echo of a happier time, unburdened by his brands.

“You’re beautiful,” she said in awe.

Then, at his arched eyebrow, realized _what_ she’d said.

“I-I mean, in general, too, of course,” she added hastily, then cringed as that only made it more awkward. “But I just meant especially now, is all. And of course you’re handsome! I certainly didn’t meant to imply you can’t be that as well, and-”

He cut her off with another kiss. “I think I understand,” he said, after he had drawn away. A warm grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “You are beautiful as well.”

Despite everything they’d just done, she felt a blush rise on her cheeks. “W-Well, thank you.”

He hummed, a drowsy, relaxed note in his voice – and a rare thing that was, she knew, and did her best to remember the sound – as his eyes slipped shut. She bit her lower lip at the sight of him: so at peace, so unguarded, as if he could fall asleep right then. She gently ran a hand through his hair, smoothing the snow-white locks into some semblance of order, and he hummed softly again.

“Thank you, Marian,” he suddenly murmured.

She started, and he grunted as she accidentally tugged at several strands. “Sorry!” she quickly said, stroking them back into place. “But what are you thanking me for? I think I quite enjoyed myself.”

He chuckled, a rumbling, husky sound that thrummed temptingly at her nerves, and she silently swore. Maker, but she should _not_ want to go another round already. As he opened his eyes and gazed upon her with a heated remembrance of that desire, however, she found herself wishing she had the energy to do so.

“As did I,” he replied. “And you have been… more than I expected. More than I ever hoped.” He offered another small, content smile. “Thank you for everything, Marian.”

A lightness swelled in her chest at his words, and she smiled in return. “I… I’m glad, Fenris,” she said, at a loss for further words.

He didn’t seem to mind, as he reached over and fondly caressed her own hair. “I am as well.”

Then he drew her close, his frame encircling hers and her head tucked under his chin, and they fell into a comfortable quiet. Her troubles – Kirkwall, the Qunari, what tall stories Varric was telling about her now – fell away in the warm embrace of his arms, and she sighed, feeling truly at ease for the first time in ages. He relaxed against her in turn, his shoulders loosening until he seemed not so much to lie upon the bed as sink into it. She cherished the moment, tucking it away as a memory, as she knew how precious such things could be.

Until she suddenly remembered:

“Are you still hungry, Fenris? I have more bread in my coat.”

“Go to sleep, Marian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Tevene taken from in-game or else very loosely based on real Latin.
> 
> Futus - Fuck


End file.
